The Seas, Remember, Took Him in November
by Trickster's Monopoly
Summary: Her name meant 'peace', but she was bred for victory. All she did was in Cipher's name. She lived as a schoolgirl, hidden by the veil of time. But there was one she could not fool; the one that made her reveal herself, and the one that could not touch her. The one struggle she lost. Set during the events of Peace Walker. Eventual Paz/Kaz.
1. Prologue

_By adroit diplomacy and the endurance and ruthless courage of his men Cortés conquered an empire of exotic brilliance. Spain, a country of under ten million inhabitants, had seized a land with a population and wealth as great as its own. Cortés's achievement fired the romantic Spanish imagination. – John Hemming,_ _ **The Conquest of the Incas.**_

* * *

 ** _Prologue_**

 ** _The Mar Pacifico_**

* * *

 ** _November 4th, 1974, 4:42 p.m_**

The first time she'd been given the red raincoat, Paz almost smiled. It was near perfect irony. Red were the colours of anger, fear, and victory, and the shock of it against the charcoal-grey thunderclouds made her feel like a prized crown jewel. The colour of power was also of fear: it meant the Red Scare that occurred shortly after her birth; by contrast, it meant the royal colours of her ancestors. Though she was a member of the 'perfect' ideal of humanity, she had a red lineage. It did not mean that she was a Communist like the man who escorted her. It meant she was a red native; that these lands had been her birthright ever since they walked from a desert basin in Mexico to the cloud forests in the south. But the years had faded the skin from its marked tawny yellow to beige that browned nicely in the sun. Paz Ortega Andrade was indistinguishable from any other American or European student.

The rain poured around them. It was the last month of Columbia's rainy season, where the deluge covered many parts of the land in water. If the jet stream did not bring favourable weather, the season could last for a few more weeks until the dry season. Latin America seemed untouched by the dreary conditions; the weather didn't stop El Che or his followers from doing their deeds years before, and it certainly did not cool the Cold War that continued to loom over everyone's shoulders. Here, the rains fell unperturbed in this country in the backyards of the great, powerful United States. When they ended, Costa Rica returned to being the gem of Latin America that was bordered by azure oceans with legumes and wildflowers that sprinkled the interior with their various perfumes. But those days had yet to arrive.

Beside her, Ramón Gálvez Mena stared out into space. He was waiting for something, of what Paz couldn't tell, but she suspected they wouldn't be waiting out here for long. The trip to Colombia from Limón had been on a rickety and rusted boat that spewed black smoke into the sky with an engine that sounded like a Spitfire aircraft. The food was rancid; whatever came out of the kitchens was quickly tossed overboard, leaving the fish victims to the concoctions. Most of all, Ramón hated the coffee. He'd taken one sip and exclaimed that it tasted like soupy tar. The chefs only shrugged as they sipped theirs with no ill effects. He opted for water after that, fearing that the tainted coffee would age him quicker than he already had.

On the ride, while Paz sat on benches with tuft, feathers, and sharp metal coils jutting out of them, Ramón would educate her on history, politics, economics, and diplomacy. All the ways people could conquer the world without raising a hand in violence. With all the nuclear weapons being made, and annihilation imminent, it was important to stress how precious and important life was. That was only one side of the coin that he showed, however. If the professor believed Paz was not looking, he would transform into a shrewd, conniving and duplicitous man, apparent as lacquer when some of the crew members went silent whenever he approached. Clearly, the professor of peace had a way of using his talents to instill control. An impressive trait, Paz had to admit. No one would do the same for her.

Ramón, in his Iscariot nature, hadn't realized he'd stepped on some very sharp eggshells. He had taken pity on her since he met her, ignorant to what Paz knew. She acted the part of the orphaned, war-torn teenager that barely escaped with her life from the slimy, capitalist hands of CIA agents and thrust into the hands of her KGB savior. As the poster child for his memos and lectures of peace, she would get him more money and a spot on the philanthropic councils, but Paz was keenly aware that neither of them had any intention of keeping to the faith. There was no God, but there was no peace, either. Curious that a man such as him would teach the benefits of peace when he was from the _Tsentr_ , and that all he was there for was riling up the commoners against America to ensure Communist rule. No one had time for peace. But if it meant getting the _Militaires Sans Frontières_ involved, now that was something worth grabbing.

Paz rubbed at her arms under the coat. The red plastic shone bright in the darkness. She felt like the Red Sonja in _Conan the Barbarian,_ having smuggled the magazines under Ramón's nose and sticking them in plastic bags under her shirt. All she was missing was the sword and the monsters, but who needed a sword when you had firearms? Ramón carried a Makarov somewhere in the folds of his coat, with some hollow point bullets hidden in another pocket. He said it was for 'protection' when Paz asked him how a man who believed in peace carried a weapon. Semantics, he called it. There were still irrational people that lived in the world, and who did not believe in the 'make love not war' slogan that was exceedingly popular? Ramón would use 'adroit diplomacy', and hammered it into Paz that she should, too. Peace could only be achieved through hardship, and he understood completely the hardship she endured.

That was only half of the story. Paz's official story was buried in a coffin somewhere, while she had to use the voodoo version to give voice to her charade. Whatever she truly thought about anything was to be buried deep within her so that her heart wouldn't thump with regret and her conscious voice doubts. Ramón's heart was doing just that – panging with heartfelt sorrow - whenever he took a cursory glance at her, making sure the shivering girl was safe at his side. Her emaciated body broke him, and her sweet, nightingale voice won him over. Now she was enrolled in his peace program at the University for Peace, tuition paid and taken care of. She would have no use for it.

Ramón's search in the darkness led to a pair of blinding headlights shining in her eyes. She hissed under her breath and raised an arm. The vehicle was awfully quiet in the rain! The headlights dimmed as if understanding her plight and Ramón's frame stepped in front of her, blocking the way. She heard a door open and close and some footsteps that squelched in the mud. Paz peered around Ramón, hoping to get a look at the newcomer.

The man was tall, well-built, with a bright yellow scarf that matched his hair. A pair of yellow-tinted aviator glasses – blue in this light - sat atop a straight, aquiline nose, and below that, his mouth was set in a line. He looked Ramón over, and held out his hand. Ramón shook it with his prosthetic hand, the firm grip matching the newcomer's. Mr. Blonde then noticed the red raincoat, the sliver of the pheasant's tail in the gloomy dark that was bold and bright.

"Is this her?" She heard over the rain. It was a young voice, bordering on boyish, yet inquisitive. One of those 'wise beyond his years' types.

Mr. Blonde had tried to peer around Ramón, but he blocked his view. Ramón was clearly saving her for the entree. An eyebrow went up over the sunglasses, and Paz saw the body tense for a single moment. She noticed that the man had a wildcat pose, one that gauged every movement and placed every footstep with care. He must have been trained in something, but in what Paz had yet to discover. She watched him under her hood.

"She is distrustful of strangers," Ramón said, as if answering Mr. Blonde's unasked question. He stood taller, shoulders straightened, chest forward, as if he was preparing to fight the wildcat. "I do not want her to be afraid of you."

"She's got nothing to worry about. She's safe here – and she'll be safe with us. We won't pressure her on anything," Mr. Blonde replied. His words were reassuring, with a degree of legitimate concern. Clearly, girls in distress didn't sit well with him.

Ramón nodded. Paz stepped around him and his prosthetic hand curled around her shoulder, a father shielding his daughter from potential danger. The feeling sent a jolt of disgust through her body, but she hid it through the shivers from the rain.

Mr. Blonde bunched his eyebrows as he assessed her. A strange man with unclear, double-meaning motives was suspicious on his own, but to cart along a girl as insurance, as cargo, now that was the writing on the warning signs. He glanced back up to Ramón, keeping all inner thoughts to himself, and gestured towards the jeep. "Come on. This rain isn't letting up, and I better get you to the Boss. We'll probably be down with the flu at this rate." The last sentence was an attempt at humour, earning a slight chuckle from Paz's guardian.

Mr. Blonde opened the door for Paz and she stepped in. The upholstery wasn't the best; it clearly had had work done to it, but the leather seats weren't sticky and were clean. It was a vast improvement from that primeval steam slag they rode to Columbia. Paz noticed the mud on her boots, thick hickory clumps overpowering russet leather, and felt bad for ruining the carpet. Oh, well. Mr. Blonde could clean it. The jeep had already been caked in mud on the outside from the lagoon-like roads Mr. Blonde had driven through. It would be covered twice over from the detour they had to take to remain incognito.

The two men entered the jeep. Mr. Blonde turned the key in the ignition. She noticed he wore a watch on his left hand. It had to be expensive, or if it wasn't, it was a very expensive copy. She couldn't see the brand from her position, so there was no telling where it was made. She could find out later. The wipers left streaks on the windshield like mortar smeared on bricks. Though it didn't seem the jeep would find purchase on the slick terrain, it leapt ahead like it was in its natural environment, and away they went. They'd hit the bad roads when Paz started bouncing on the seat. The men did not speak to each other. Paz, having a moment to herself, recalled an amusing story about another red coat that she owned when she was younger.

When she was a pan-handling orphan, she'd been given a red coat from a charity worker that had taken pity on her for being nearly naked in the rain. It fit her well, was warm, and she wore it whenever she could, even on sunny days. When the days came for her proper schooling, a classmate of hers, a Latina girl named Griselda, took one look and laughed at her.

"Why are you laughing at me?" Paz had asked. She hoped it wasn't done out of respite. She'd had enough for that for a while.

It did not end up that way, as no sneers or insults came out. Instead, Griselda shook her head and pointed at the holes in her coat. "You look like a raggedy Red Riding Hood! All you're missing is the basket and the flowers and the wolf that's going to come and take your basket."

"What do you mean?" Paz demanded, affronted, "what do you mean about the wolf coming to take my basket? That didn't happen in the fairytale. The wolf ate her _grandmother,_ not the basket!"

Griselda just laughed at her. It was one of those 'I-know-something-you-don't-know' laughs. Her cinnamon brown hand rose to her mouth, covering her crooked teeth. She lowered it when the snickers ended. " _Chica_ , you're too young. When you're older you'll get it."

"No!" Paz said angrily. "I want to know what it means _now!"_ She stomped her foot for good measure.

Griselda, raising a dark, bushy eyebrow, smiled and raised her hands in mock surrender. "You want to know what it means, _Ichtaca_? Alright, I will tell you what it means. The wolf eats the grandmother and Red Riding Hood and is shot by the hunter, yes? That's in the fairy tales. But the wolf is another metaphor for a _man_ , and he wants to take your _basket_ , and before that he tries to _seduce you_ off the trail. What it really means is a man is going to seduce you to make you give him your basket – your _virtue._ And then he eats you."

Paz, shocked by Griselda's tenacity, grew as red as a fresh Washington apple. Paz yelled at the girl, giving chase through the school halls so she could hit her; a smack for every vile, teasing word that came out of the Latina's crooked mouth. That little _perra!_ Oh, how she was going to pay! As Paz chased the fleeing Griselda, graceful as a gazelle, diving through open doors and ducking under the arms of surprised schoolteachers, smells of fresh food, stale chalk, and dust from old tomes and dander alike danced around them like _charreadas_ – a reminiscence to disappear as quickly as stale air is sucked through an open window.

The jeep had hit a deep pothole, shaking the chassis in violent tremors, sending Paz forward into Mr. Blonde's seat. Her nose smacked the leather hard, sending pain and the smell of ageing upholstery up her nose. With the snap of invisible fingers, her dream state had ended, and she was jerked back firmly into her seat.

 _"Ah!"_ she shrieked. Her hands flew to her nose. _Just my luck!_ She whimpered, a sad mewl like a kitten.

"Are you alright?" It was Mr. Blonde. Hearing the commotion, and feeling the thump through the seat, he'd coasted the jeep to a crawl, and later to a stop. He peered over his seat at her. The edges of his mouth turned downward, pinpricks on his clean-shaven face, waiting to see if the girl needed help.

Paz rubbed her nose and nodded. She didn't meet his gaze. "Oh...I hope my nose is not broken," she sniveled. Her fingers cradled it. She winced when firecrackers of pain erupted from her nose.

Mr. Blonde, noticing her distress, reached over, but paused before her face. His pale hand hovered in front of her. "Is it alright if I...?"

"Yes." Paz raised her head a little, unlocking her fingers. She raised her head enough for him to do his inspection, but her upper face and forehead remained covered. She felt his fingers on her nose; they were surprisingly soft, not having any of the roughness of blisters or scars. He touched the ridge and felt the cartilage there, gently, careful not to offend her. His actions continued for a few minutes with exactness. His fingers were firm yet did not press against her skin too roughly. He pulled back with a smile as gentle as his touch.

"It's not broken. You just hit it hard. It might be bruised, but it'll heal in a few days," he said. Paz nodded at him, mumbled thanks, and faced the window. Mr. Blonde turned back to the steering wheel, but not before looking at Ramón. He said nothing but nodded his head as if to say he approved of his kind action. The jeep's engine roared up again. Paz cradled her nose, skimming the spots where Mr. Blonde touched previously. They tingled. The pain, strangely, was not as bad as before.

"Thank you, señor." Paz admonished herself to wear her seatbelt next time. Ramón might lecture her for the mistake, but the action would be forgotten. If none of them mentioned it, it would not be a mistake. That was his rule, and hers: it was not a mistake if it did not exist.

The jeep finally stopped after navigating through the torrential downpours – Mr. Blonde had proven to be quite the driver - in front of a ramshackle building that had seen better days. A sign in front with yellow, white and black paint showed a skull with an eye patch on one side. Below, the title _Militaires Sans Frontières_ was emblazoned in its – former – glory.

A sound of disappointment fizzled in her throat. She had honestly expected better from all the things she'd heard about this notorious and exceptional company. But no, there were fogged windows with dust and who knew what else; sagging, drowned wood boards, with a porch ready to join the ocean that was roaring at the beach. The white foam could be seen from where she sat. She hid her disappointment. Mr. Blonde spoke again, this time to a man that was approaching from the beach. He was shirtless, but that only served to show his powerful muscles and the serpentine scar that wove around his chest. Paz was no stranger to unclothed men, but there were exceptions to the rule. She promptly leveled that thought when Mr. Blonde mentioned them to the newcomer. Paz adjusted her coat.

 _This is it. These are the people we must barter with. And if I can get them to do what I want, that is all the better. I will have made him proud. Cipher, I know I will make you proud._

The jeep doors opened and Paz and her comrade walked to the building, Mr. Blonde trailing behind her. Though she did not have eyes in the back of her head, Paz knew Mr. Blonde was watching her.

 _I do not know who you are, but know that I will not let you touch me again. I'll sew you with stones before I am done with you._

Costa Rican coffee greeted her and she took it gingerly. She had burned her lips too many times on the beverage, so she waited until it cooled a little. Back at the table, Ramón was gulping down his. The men began talking.

The water dripped from her hood to the floor. She had one ear on their conversation and the other on the droplets, to give the illusion that she, as an innocent high school girl, couldn't possibly know of the things they talked about. She would wait until she was called forward.

 _"No, I am not here on their behalf!"_ Ramón pleaded. Even though it was below him, he was close to performing the sick puppy look. "We came here all the way to see you! Please do not make us turn back after all we had sacrificed!"

Paz had to scoff under her breath.

 _The Conquistadores came on behalf of the King and Queen of Spain, but they weren't there for diplomacy. They stampeded their leather boots on the beaches and hacked through the jungles, and still they could not tame it. Do you think you can tame men like them? You are a fool. They'll smell you from miles away._

There was more squabbling, Ramón nearly on his knees, and then that Soviet-red hand was thrust in her direction.

"She came to me to study for peace. Her name...is Paz." There was her cue.

The red hood came down, revealing the face that had been hidden earlier. There was the wheat-blonde hair, rain drops falling from the strands like jungle leaves around a fine, narrow face with large eyes. A quiet, fragile breath escaped from her lips, adding to her innocent look. She was Little Red Riding Hood, and she was going to be undressed and appraised like a bride for sale. Snake noted her name.

It was then that Mr. Blonde introduced himself: he was Kazuhira Miller, the half-American, half-Japanese wildcat who expressed jovial surprise at the coincidence of their same names.

 _More like 'kamikaze',_ Paz noted wryly. He tried to make conversation with her by saying her name and his shared the same meaning. He offered his hand, but she did not accept it. He lowered it, caught off guard, and promptly changed the subject. The other man was the Dog of War himself – Big Boss, though he refused to take the name. He preferred his original codename: Naked Snake. The smoke from his cigar floated around him, making the entire situation seem like an L.A. Noire film. There was talk of politics. The CIA wanted Latin America. What they couldn't get by treaties they would get by force. They _needed_ the MSF; Costa Rica was defenceless. They wanted to be in charge of their own fate.

Snake refused. He would have no part of it. He was tired of semantics like that. It wasn't proper, he said. They weren't lapdogs for political entrepreneurs. They needed to use politics, not force.

Ramón was getting frustrated, Paz could sense it. Seeing his mistake, she stepped forward. She made sure her presence, though small, would be known. She spoke with a quiet, yet determined voice:

"My name is Paz...and I will do _anything_ to protect my namesake."

* * *

It wasn't enough. Not even the shock from the men as they saw her emaciated body: the bruised arms, the spindly legs, the sunken navel. Ramón pushed her forward, his wildcard insurance policy, as a means to seal the agreement. Even with Snake's lone blue eye widened in horror, it was not enough. As quickly as they came, they were standing in the rain again. Paz sighed.

"What will we do now? We have nothing," she said. "They turned us away, our last hope."

Ramón didn't seem affected. A smile crept onto his face, hidden in the dark. "Do not worry, dear one. They'll accept our offer...I know they will."

They stood there. The deluge continued around them, shielding them like a mourner's veil from the world.

* * *

Snake declared he would do it. He'd do it for her, the beautiful Costa Rican girl. In exchange, he'd get a new base, and Costa Rica could be saved from _La Cia_. All was good.

But then the discussion came of what to do with her.

"She has no place here. She needs somewhere safe to stay, and I cannot leave her alone for fear that La Cia will take her again," Ramón said, gesturing to her. "I must keep her close to me."

"We're not babysitters, and neither are you. She'll just be an open target, and if she knows things the CIA wants, then they're going to double their efforts," Snake had responded. "And you can't keep her holed up either. It wouldn't be good for her health, physical or mental."

Ramón sighed through his nose, looked down as his mug. "It was a difficult trip here from Puerto Limon. Paz was so weak. I do not think she can make the journey back."

"Columbia isn't safe, either," Snake said. "The drug cartels are setting up shop everywhere. If it's not the CIA hunting down insurgents, it's the cartels looking for blood money. And they're not above human trafficking." He growled the last part. In unsettled and untamed country, smugglers could get away with anything, including human chattel.

Paz only sat in a chair in the corner, eyes averted. It was good to dry out her clothes and not be immodest. The chill was fading from her bones. Through her peripheral vision, Miller watched her. The action seemed so natural for him.

"Perhaps you are right," Ramón conceded. "Columbia is not like Costa Rica. The latter is building an economy, the other is breeding conflict. It _does_ make me wonder why you picked this country of all others."

Snake barely gave a shrug. "We go where we're needed. We're not aligned to any government or army."

"Yes. Nomads. You said as much. And how are these nomads going to part the sea for us?" Ramón spread his hands. "The ocean is as dangerous as the land, especially during the rainy season."

"It's November, isn't it?" Kaz piped up. "The dry season's almost here and the waters will calm down. It's a little late in the season, but it takes a few days to get to the coast. By then it should be nice."

"If all is in favour, I see no reason to stay. Though it was a waste getting here," he mumbled.

"What do you suggest then? Where's that 'University for Peace you keep talking about?'" Snake asked.

"Ciudad Colón. It still has yet to receive students, but it's the safest place for my charge," Ramón said.

Snake wasn't convinced. "But if the university is attacked by CIA militia you won't have any way of knowing whether she's alive or not. Not exactly a good recipe for 'peace', is it?"

A sardonic grin slithered across Ramón's face. "The price we all must pay if we are to end war and violence among us."

Snake grunted. He was about to retort when Miller spoke up. "Why not use the radio? If she has one, she can communicate with us anytime. She can give us daily reports and if something goes wrong, we know where she is and what we can do to help." He looked around the room. "How about it? It can't hurt anyone." Miller looked to Snake for approval. "What do you think, Boss?" When Snake did not answer after a few seconds, Miller prompted, "Boss?"

"Fine," Snake grumbled, "but don't lecture me on 'peaceful methods' when things go wrong." He noticed that his cigar was down to a stub. He grumbled in his throat.

Ramón nearly beamed. "I wouldn't expect anything less from a man of your calibre," Ramón said. "But there is one last thing..."

"What?" Snake asked. He was annoyed that his cigar was out, and two, this man was still asking him questions.

"Transportation. I cannot be seen with her. It would only arouse _La Cia's_ suspicions. She can't make the trek on her own, and I have no way of getting her there otherwise. A boat takes too long, and anything else is too conspicuous." Ramón spread his hands. "If I can perhaps suggest –"

"I'll take her," Miller offered.

"You?" Snake asked, disbelieving. "Being a chauffeur to young teenagers, now? That's not like you."

Miller sputtered at the remark. "That's not – that's not what I meant. I'll be her escort. I'll take her to the school, give her the radio, and it'll be incognito for the both of us. If things go wrong, we can say we're brother and sister."

"Heh...funny. Are you going to imitate what's-his-face in the helicopter? James Bond?"

"Snake...," Miller almost pouted. "You know I wouldn't touch a hair on her head. Hands off, I promise. And by the way, that's Sean Connery you're thinking of."

Snaked sighed heavily. "Fine, take her. But don't take too long. We need to see if this 'Mother Base' deal is going to work out." Snake cast his lone eye on Ramón, as if daring him to oppose. Ramón was not one to show his emotions, but Paz could see a flicker of fear cross his face. If Snake could do that to him, he could do that to anyone.

 _I must be careful with that one._

Paz stood. She looked around at her audience. "Thank you. Especially you, Snake." Her face, now free from the hood, showcased her blonde tresses. She batted her doe-eyes and giggled. Snake spared her a glance then returned to the stub of his cigar. Miller approached her.

"So...are you ready to go? I'll try not to hit any bumpy roads this time," Miller said. He rubbed his head.

 _How awkward._ "Yes, I am ready. Let us not waste any more time."

Miller was once again in her train and Paz felt grateful, because if Miller's watch wasn't enough to unnerve her, then Snake's was enough to crush her.

She rode shotgun in the jeep. She looked towards the horizon. Though it was near midnight, she crossed her fingers. She recited a rhyme that promised good fortune.

 _Red skies at night, sailor's delight. Red skies at morn, sailors be warned._

The rhyme was swallowed by the jeep's engine, the obedient creature charging forward to carry its passengers into the dark.

* * *

Notes:

\- I am aware that the Incas and Aztecs are separate civilizations. However, the quote does have relevance, to which you shall see later.

\- I did some extra research on the ports and towns where Paz and Ramon came from. It'd be quite a trip from there to Columbia, and for them to be sent back right away would be a hassle for both. Here, I'll give voice to those concerns.

\- As MGS3 was an 'James Bond' parody, I added a reference.

\- The sailor's rhyme Paz says at the end has some real scientific backing. Water vapour and dust particles, reflecting the sun's rays, indicates high pressure. In the morning, red skies mean high water pressure, indicating storm systems.

\- The 'kamikaze' was a suicide attack used by Japanese fighter pilots during the Second World War. Given Kaz's Japanese background, the remark is a derogatory statement.

\- In the game both Paz and Galvez work for the KGB, but it appeared that he did not know that she was in it, as evidenced by him using her as a pawn, lying to her, etc. Most KGB agents work side by side without ever knowing the other is one. For the sake of this story, both she and Galvez work for the KGB, but Galvez, truly believing her innocent, keeps things secret from her.

\- At the end of the game Miller is said to have known Paz's and Galvez's true motives. For the sake of this story, I will make him suspicious of Paz, while knowing fully what Galvez is. Eventually, the truth will appear and the two will go head to head.

\- The pairing, I am sure, will raise eyebrows. Eventually, I will have it so that he will know how old she really is, so that'll lower the squick factor. The pairing, and story, was inspired by Anime Borat's _The Voice Beneath the Silence,_ particularly, the reference of Miller once loving a Costa Rican girl. I adored it, and here this is.

\- For a little creativity, I have made Paz have some Aztec heritage. Though she is originally from the United States, I've made it so that she has connections to this culture.

\- Griselda is an OC and she will appear later.

\- Since most people have played the games or knows what happens, I won't be writing what everyone knows word for word. Since this is from Paz's perspective, it'll include her experiences, past and present, and her eventual move to Mother Base.

\- As I have not written anything on this account for almost three years, all errors and mistakes, including the rustiness of the writing, are entirely my own.

\- One more thing: I **_cannot stand_** Tara Strong as Paz. She hurts my ears and she slips in and out of the accent. For your pleasure, Paz will be 'voiced' by Alice Braga.

Translations:

 _Perra -_ bitch

 _Mar Pacifico -_ Peaceful sea. It is the Spanish and Portuguese name.

 _Charreadas -_ Mexican rodeo.

 _Ichtaca -_ A feminine Aztec name meaning 'secret'.


	2. Prologue Pt II

**_The Marieta Islands, Several Years Earlier_**

* * *

A shining beach ball lazily rolled past her feet in the sand. The plastic yellow-and-white faux pearl had escaped, and like a lost terrier hoping to find the closest companion, it ventured near her. Unwilling to expend the effort to sit up and throw it back, she gave it a light kick with her toes. When they stung painfully, she hissed and thrust them back into her beach towel.

The body beside her rose and tossed the beach ball back to its owner. There was a happy giggle and feet pattered across the sand. Paz laid a warm arm across her eyes, hoping that by shutting out the sun and the laughter, the burning in her toes and feet would subside.

There was a soft thump on the towel beside her, accompanied by a low, womanly sigh. It was warm and rich like cinnamon, and those who listened to her speak swore they could taste it on their tongues after it passed through their ears. Paz was close to admitting that it was true.

"This place...I could not even comprehend of dreaming it. But to be here, all alone, with no tourists...it is like paradise."

By custom, Griselda del Rio was not allowed to use her natural surname. If a girl did not have a surname at all, she was given one based on the town, city, or country she was from. Following that custom, Griselda del Rio was the name given, severing her ties for home, her people, and any memories, fond or malicious, she might have of them. If she held either grievance, she never spoke of it; it was not in her nature to speak of herself.

Griselda had been recruited from Sao Paulo. The daughter of a fisherman and a housewife that occasionally worked as a seamstress, her father had gone abroad for work in order to support the family's growing financial difficulties and debts. The banana and coffee plantations had been good offers, but his hopes were crushed when most of them were destroyed due to disease or the actions of warring factions. There was the railroad, but that was too dangerous, and her father did not have the courage or good will to brave any extremes. When it was reported that he had been killed in a narcotics operation, Griselda's mother never spoke of it to her daughter, but said that, while eating lunch, he choked on a piece of fish and died in his boat. She was six at the time, and curious. She had a hunch that her mother was lying, but never questioned her. Griselda was then under the care of her mother.

She was taken care of until she was seven. Not more than a year after her father's death, her mother had committed suicide. Not knowing the real reasons for this, Griselda ventured to say that her mother's silent grumblings and tears were the results of no work, a failed affair, or that she was laundering money from the government. Whatever it was, before the police came to collect her body, Griselda was gone. She ventured Sao Paulo by herself.

When she and Paz had met at a nondescript girl's school run by a few seemingly good-natured young women, they had thought they would have the run of the place: Griselda was tall, sinewy, and knew her way around knives and shivs; Paz could manipulate others with her innocent nature. However, it quickly became known that neither girl would be prepared for the true nature of their schooling, and whatever came out of that, the girls had to ride the waves.

And there they were, relaxing on the beaches of the Marieta Islands while the world sailed around them.

Griselda, like Paz, spoke fluent Spanish. She also knew Nahuatl, the language of her distance ancestors. Often the girls would share quips between each other, which would earn strange looks from the other girls that didn't understand the language. Despite their quips and barbs, Griselda was one of her closest confidantes. They would not consider themselves true friends; in their line of work, any friend could be an enemy. All things had a catch; a price to pay.

" _Hay gato escondido,"_ Griselda spoke. Even in the middle of nowhere, her words were reserved and quiet, the cinnamon ground to sugar.

Paz, her arm now numb, sat up and rubbed her eyes. Sand that had brushed against her sides fell away like a fine ash. Her skin, a delightful tawny colour, was a close match to her hair. Her fingers dug into her beach towel, a blue-and-white checkered ensemble. There was a wide lane in the sand, accompanied by footprints. Paz followed it and saw that it was from the beach ball, flying from place to place in the hands of Elena, who took the surname 'Zapopan', the city where she was born. Ignorant to them, she played with her multi-coloured friend with all the graces of a fluttering moth. Small in stature, but graceful, she'd been recruited as a dancer, and would work somewhere in the Continent or to Africa. She was the first to be assigned.

Griselda and Paz didn't think she'd be drafted so easily. She was the first to break under pressure.

" _Días y ollas._ Whatever he wills, we shall act for him. It is our duty. This is our reward," Paz said. If Griselda spoke with cinnamon, then Paz spoke with salt. All the bitterness and sharp flavour was attributed to her. She was both a necessity and something to be avoided in excess. One came from a mine. The other, a tree.

"You speak as if you have read from a textbook. Tell me, _Ichtaca_ , what does the man behind the mask think of us? He makes us run on coals one moment and treats us with beaches the next. We scream when iron bars break our bones and we choke when rags are shoved down our throats. We did it for him – for gratitude. Yet we still run around as if we are mice waiting for the cat to show up. It's a mismanaged mariachi band," Griselda said. She rested her chin on her knees. Her light mocha skin did not tan at all in the sun. It was smooth as a coffee bean.

"We are his vessels," Paz responded, "and we do it because of gratitude. We surpassed his expectations, and we will have the world at our feet. What more can we ask?"

Griselda watched her with a cool, even look. The hazel of her eyes glowed like amber, and like the stone, she could trap someone within her where they would lie forever.

"Maybe it is," Griselda ventured, "and maybe it isn't. We are still mismanaged."

"Why do you say that?" Paz asked. She turned her head to face Griselda. Her wild blonde hair shook around. "It is all part of a game – a machine. One action reinforces another. We are never alone. I am beginning to think that you are questioning our father, Griselda."

Griselda said nothing for a moment, only noting the fieriness behind Paz's words. Paz was never one to back down from an argument. She would argue from morning to evening and even if she lost, she'd find a way to win somehow. When she put on the sweetheart persona, she would win unanimously. But Griselda was not fooled by her facade. She stood and turned her back to Paz. The scars had faded to the point where they looked like scratches. Griselda's feet started to move across the sand. Paz, like a fish drawn to a shining bait hook, stood up too. They began walking together.

"You are close to that man, aren't you?"

Paz, a head shorter than Griselda, looked up. "No, I am not. Why are you asking me these things? It's inappropriate. Why did you ask them when Elena was in earshot? I couldn't have possibly given you an honest answer. You are so bold with your words it is a wonder _papa_ hasn't made an accident of you." Paz spoke with disdain, as if Griselda's boldness was something to be disgusted by. It didn't matter to her friend; she just shrugged.

"That is what I wanted. If I offended you, I apologize." Griselda smiled at Paz's furious blush. The fish had taken the bait with the hook in its mouth.

Paz huffed and faced the other direction. They kept walking. It was awkward for Paz since her feet still stung, and if she wasn't careful, the blisters would pop. She swallowed her hisses and bit the inside of her cheek.

"What is wrong, _chica?_ You walk like a puffin." Griselda was looking at Paz's feet. When she saw the angry rouge, she held a hand out. "Wait here. I'll get something for that."

Paz watched Griselda trot to her beach towel, where an old wicker basket sat. She lifted the lid, took a nondescript plastic bottle out, and jogged back to her. She walked and ran with all the graces of a gazelle. It would not be beyond anyone for that animal to become her codename.

"Alright. Sit. I need to do my work."

"Sit? On the sand?" Paz asked, baffled.

"What? You don't like sand on that bottom of yours?" Griselda chuckled. "Don't be ashamed. It's not like there's anything back there, anyways!"

"Hey!" Paz shouted. "That's not fair!"

"I don't care. Now sit," Griselda ordered. Paz, despite a scowl, sat. Griselda then grabbed her right foot and rubbed a sweet-smelling lotion on it. The stings quickly turned into a delightful soothe. The scent was light, floral, almost like lily-of-the-valley. Paz inhaled.

"What is that?" Paz sniffed. "Aloe doesn't smell like that."

"It's lavender. It's good for burns and blisters. I picked some earlier and made my own lotion. You can't say I didn't come prepared."

"Maybe I should learn to do that... _ow!"_ Paz nearly kicked Griselda in the face. Unperturbed, Griselda caught her foot, holding it at the ankle.

"Sensitive down there?" she asked. "You must have quite a few nerves."

"Can you let go of my foot?"

"If you do that again, I'll have to break it." Griselda eyed her with a mischievous glint.

"No, you won't. I'd break your teeth. Didn't you just get them fixed?" Paz shot back.

Griselda snorted. "Don't tempt me, _chica._ But you won't, anyways, because I'm finished." She let go of her foot and stood up.

Paz wriggled her toes, noting how they already looked healthier. She sighed happily.

"Oh, do I not get a 'thank you'? You're so ungrateful," Griselda teased. Hands on her hips, teeth flashing, Griselda motioned for Paz to stand up. She did so, the pain gone from her body. She trotted along with Griselda to a little alcove away from the beach where the water seeped in. Walking together in bright, gold-laced, form-hugging bikinis, they appeared as everyday tourists, carefree with their clothes and money. Griselda, who always swayed her hips when she moved, noticed that Paz was trying to do the same. She slowed her pace and moved closer to her.

"The more I look at you, the more I see a child, not a woman." Griselda frowned. "Everything about you is young. It makes me wonder what purpose he has for you."

Paz shrugged. "I do not know. Whatever it will be, I shall forever be grateful."

"You keep saying that, and I wonder if you truly are. But between us" – Griselda leaned so that she was speaking in Paz's ear "- you are his favourite. He'll pick the most dangerous thing for you. I worry for you."

"Worry? Why?" Paz frowned. "There is nothing to worry about. We have come a long way. Who is to say that we cannot work together?"

Griselda shook her head, slowly, sorrowful. "You know that is not true. And you will likely forget whatever I say here. That is the way of things. But my worry is not unfounded. I fear for you, Paz."

Paz's eyebrows furrowed. "What do you mean?"

"You know I do not believe in God, though I attended the Churches as a girl. I carry a cross with a ruby with me wherever I go. I do not pray, but I believe in luck. I believe in karma. I believe in our old gods. And I believe in signs given to me from things that I cannot explain." Griselda was distant and cold, as if she were stating facts, not having an ordinary conversation. It was a stark change from the smiling girl a few moments ago.

"Griselda...," Paz whispered, "What are you talking about? Are you trying to scare me?" Despite Paz's attempt at sounding defiant, her voice quivered. Griselda's sudden mood change only made her feel worse.

"I...I had...," Griselda swallowed, but whether it was fear or bile, Paz couldn't be sure. Griselda looked down and kicked at the sand. "You were on a bed. You saw someone in the doorway, but I couldn't see who it was. You were happy to see him or her. Then you started to squirm and moan in pain. Your fingers clawed at your stomach. You clawed so much that you tore it open, and you kept digging. You kept clawing and pulling out your innards until a black box came out of you...and then, just like that, your stomach was better. Just like that." Griselda's eyes watered. "Just like that. Oh, _chica,_ I was so scared for you!"

Paz could only stare. Paz could only return the gesture when Griselda wrapped her arms around her in a tight hug. She sniffled into her shoulder, choked on a sob, and, as quickly as it began, Griselda's eyes were dry and her demeanour was calm again. Paz blinked.

 _What in the world - ?_

The beach ball rolled near their feet. Griselda picked it up. "Come now, _Ichtaca,_ we're joining the picnic. We might as well enjoy our little piece of paradise."

When Griselda jogged away, Paz followed, but her mind was like a balloon on a very long string. The mocha-coloured girl had a set of emotions like a prism; at any moment, whenever the light hit it, it could change. That was why Griselda was the perfect liar. That was why she was picked.

But her perceptiveness, that distant, faraway perception of hers, that was how she was picked for Paz. No matter how often she lied, there were some things a person couldn't lie about.

Her hand traveled to her stomach, feeling the traces of a scar that was not there.

* * *

 ** _November 4th, 10:25 p.m._**

Returning to Limón was not on Paz's agenda. In fact, the trip from Limón to Columbia seemed like a massive waste of time, and it was an even bigger waste now that she was being carted back after not staying for a single day. They were on the beaches of Barranquilla, away from the Golden Gate of Columbia and Carnival. It was one thing to see the beaches when the rainy season had departed, and it was another thing to come during the most dreadful time of the year. Thankfully, Costa Rica had better weather, but the ports were another problem. As long as she was nowhere near Puerto Limón, that was fine for her.

Bolted awake from the coffee she drank earlier, Paz watched the misshapen blobs run past the window. She'd have preferred staying in a cabin and leaving in the morning, but no – Ramón and that big, scruffy dog of a man named _Snake_ insisted that they leave right away! They couldn't _possibly_ have agreed on a later date; nope, it was 'Go, go, go, go back to where you came from, your business is done here!' Were they all door-to-door salesmen that ran away as soon as they rung the doorbell? What kind of packages did they leave at the door? It was all a mess. An arranged mess.

 _Hay gato escondido._ Paz silently chanted her comrade's words.

Miller seemed unaffected by fatigue or anxiety. He was perfectly at ease.

 _Hay gato escondido. Would that I could avoid this mess._

"Is that Spanish?" Miller's voice snapped her out of her thoughts. She straightened in her seat and faced him.

"Si. It is."

"What does it mean?"

"It is a Spanish idiom. It means, 'something is afoot.' A friend of mine used it," Paz said.

"Ah. Fits the situation, doesn't it? With the professor and all."

"What do you mean?" Paz asked. "Do you think Professor Gálvez is not honest in his intentions?"

"Let's just say that Spanish idiom fits him pretty good," Miller said. "I'd like to say more, but I don't think it's appropriate for young girls."

Paz raised an eyebrow. "I will have you know that I have been called mature for my age."

"I don't doubt that you are. But still. Young girls shouldn't be subjected to what you've gone through. I'm sorry for your friend, I really am. We'll do our best to find her," Miller said. His hands tightened around the steering wheel. She couldn't see his face, but she didn't doubt that lines appeared in his forehead.

"You sound troubled," Paz noted, "do girls in distress make you uncomfortable?"

"I don't like seeing women get hurt. Especially young girls," Miller told her. "It just – I've seen too much of it."

Paz nodded her head slowly. "Yes, and out here, every girl has a knife under her skirt. It is too dangerous otherwise."

Nothing was said for a moment.

"I have been meaning to ask you something," Miller said.

"What is it?"

"How long have you known the professor?" Now, Miller did turn to look at her. The glint from his glasses made her shift in her seat; she didn't like men in glasses all too much.

Miller, seeing the gesture, quickly changed the question, "I mean, you just entered the school, right? What is it called again?"

"The University for Peace," Paz answered. "The campus is not completed, that is true, but there are a few students there that will eventually make up the student body. Then, as we get more funding and more teachers, we will be officially recognized. Even a school has to start out with tiny steps. It is no different than your Mother Base."

Miller went quiet at that. "How do you know about –

"Oh! I am sorry!" Paz cupped her hands around her mouth. "Stupid me. I accidentally overheard Snake and Professor Gálvez talk about it. If I offended you for speaking about it, I am truly sorry. I will never speak of it again."

"No, no," Miller said. "It's alright. But I've got to say, you have quite an ear." He smiled at her, but Paz suspected that it hid his initial alarm.

"Now, I have a question to ask you," Paz said. She pointed at his arm. "What kind of watch is that? I didn't see the brand when we first met."

"Oh, this?" He lifted his arm to show her. "It's a Grand Sieko. It was introduced in 1960 by Yoshikazu Akahane. He went through more than 600 prototypes to perfect it. It's one of the few watches that have continuous second-hand movement." He moved his arm closer. "Japanese watches are now just as famous as Swiss ones. They've come a long way."

"Can I touch it?"

"Sure."

Paz leaned over her seat. Her fingers skimmed over it, careful not to leave a smudge. She noted the simple, yet exact cuts of silver and heard the pleasant _tick_ of the second hand. It was all polished like cut crystal and likely as hard as one. She gave a delighted gasp. "Oh, it's _beautiful."_

Miller beamed. "Really? I could find you one. But I don't know how big your wrist is. If you wore mine, it'd probably fall off."

Paz giggled. "Yes, it probably would." She returned to her seat. "I've never had many pretty things in my possession."

"Me neither. I grew up selling cigarettes. Didn't even get my aviators until I was older."

" _Estás loco!_ You are joking!" Paz laughed at him.

"No, I'm not! Seriously!" Miller exclaimed. "My mother was sick and I needed money to take her to the hospital. I didn't know my father at the time, so I sold cigarettes and other stuff at a convenience store. I asked any soldier that came in whether they knew my father, and when one of them did, I wrote to him. One thing led to another, and here I am," he said.

Paz's laughter ceased. "Oh...I did not know that. Gah," she slapped herself on the forehead, "I feel like an idiot."

"Don't do that," Miller grabbed her wrist. "You don't need to hurt yourself. You didn't know. Don't feel bad for asking questions."

Paz looked at his hand. His grip didn't hurt, but she could feel the strength behind it. He let go.

"That is the second time you've touched me today," Paz said. "I am beginning to think that you like doing it."

"Huh? What – no, I mean – you were –

Paz shook her head, grinning. "It is alright, silly man. I am just joking." She smiled further when she saw that his cheeks had turned red. "Don't you like to be teased?"

"Not really," he said. He failed to hide his embarrassment. "That was a low blow. And coming from a girl, jeez."

"You're more of a boy than a man," Paz said. "You're quite cute when your cheeks go that red."

Miller sighed exasperatedly. "The rewards I get for being a chauffeur...won't this be a riot."

Paz hid her smile and turned back to looking out the passenger window. This Kazuhira Miller was so easily embarrassed. If and when she needed something, or needed an escape route, all she had to do was pull his strings and he would be reduced to this blushing, nervous, boyish mess.

 _It cannot be this easy. Perhaps this trip wasn't wasted after all._

* * *

Notes:

\- Bit by bit, we'll get to the whole crux of Paz's excruciating training.

\- Mostly dialogue here. I wanted some banter between Kaz and Paz.

\- Kaz wore a watch in the game, but what brand I wasn't sure. So I made him have a Grand Sieko. It is one of Japan's most famous and enduring watches, and made its debut in the 1950's. It is still being sold today. I thought it would be fitting for him to have one.

Correction: he wears a Rolex. I'll find a way to make him have one. Second, I am aware he speaks Spanish. I'll add that, too.

\- Zapopan is a city in Mexico, in the Guandalajara Metropolitan area.

\- The Marieta Islands are a hot tourist spot. Their craters were formed by Mexican military practices in 1909. They are isolated from mainland Mexico.

\- Lavender is used for burn treatments, like aloe. While creams and lotions are not recommended for burn treatments, lavender's anti-inflammatory properties serve as an exception to the rule.

\- As always, all errors are mine.

Translations:

 _Hay gato escondido -_ An idiom meaning 'something is afoot.'

 _Días y ollas -_ An idiom meaning 'what will be will be'.

 _Estás loco! -_ You're crazy.

 _Ichtaca -_ a feminine Aztec name for 'secret'.


	3. Act I

**ACT I**

 _Creatures of habit_

 _Carrion flowers_

 _Growing from repeated crimes_

 _The afterglow in full bloom_

 _Slow and relentless, we're after you_

 _\- Chelsea Wolfe, 'Carrion Flowers'_

* * *

 **I**

 **Chihuahan Desert, Mexico, 1966.**

Exhaustion was visible on all their faces like scorch marks on a parched field. None of them slept well, even with teas and herbals remedies. All of them had laid awake the previous night, waiting for Matron Evita to knock down the door, the heat and light blaring behind her like some hexing mirage. She would walk in with a rider's whip in hand, ready to smack any exposed limb she saw or empty cups not meant to be drank. Other maids and servants, delivering food, water, and medicine to those who needed it, had slowly disappeared as the week went on. Soon only she remained, and her loud, buffalo-like roar was enough to send every girl scurrying to their beds. She had all the poise, command, and authority of a despot, and it was her duty to make sure every girl was groomed for their future roles.

All matrons took the name of Evita - after Evita Perón - though only a few could ever be considered her equal, let alone possess Evita's temperament. Respect varied between them; matrons only did their jobs as burgeoning, oppressive governesses who educated their subjects through literature and litany. Despite these drawbacks, few girls wanted to turn back to their old lives. For many of them, this new system not only provided order and protection, but gave them a new, indifferent view of life. In that way, their emotions would never get in the way of decisions. They would act completely as independent organisms; the cells of a much larger, more powerful organism. None of them knew the identity or the real name of the man they served. They only operated and obeyed by the whim of the name they did know: Cipher.

That morning, Cipher had commanded the head matron to prepare the girls for their field test. The young women, saved from lives of poverty, severe dehydration and starvation, and plumped up with good nutrition and medicine, were then told to starve themselves again in preparation for future trials. Many were shocked at this idea. Why would a man who had saved their lives and gave them things to eat, would suddenly tell them to stop? Others, the wiser, inquisitive ones, understood that it was only one part, one level, of the game they had to play. They prepared. They tried to get some sleep, sipped from their allotted cups of water, but like the rest of them, they couldn't find sleep. It would have to find them.

There were two dozen girls carted into the truck that morning. Early dawn was a splash of bright oranges and yellows, with the sun torching the clouds as it began its ascent. Though it was not yet five o'clock in the morning, the heat had arrived and was heavy as a quilt on their bodies. It had to have been almost 100 F. They walked in a straight line, wearing nothing but their nightgowns, and, in front of Matron Evita, were told to strip down to their underwear. They obeyed. Matron Evita walked past each girl, a pace like a corpsman, inspecting each one: poking her stomach, touching her chin, feeling her hair, squeezing their thighs. The last part was done to see if the teas had failed; in order to avoid unnecessary costs, the girls were told to drink special teas daily to stop their menstruation cycles. If Matron Evita caught the faintest trace of blood, the girl would be ostracized, marched back to the commune, and kept there until she was shipped to another part of the desert – her fate unknown.

Matron Evita did not find any girl that broke the rules. When she was done her inspection, she marched to the centre of the column. She addressed each girl with a Master Sergeant's scrutiny.

" _Mis hijas!"_ she started, clear and sharp as a coyote's howl, "It is a special day! Yesterday, you slept in feathered beds, ate figs and fresh fruit from jade trays, swam in cool baths, and played in the dark. Today, and the days following those days, you will not." She started to pace, one foot firmly planted in front of the other. "Yesterday, I was your mother. Today the desert is. Are you afraid? Do not be. The Old People walked from this basin all the way to the jungles in the south. From sunrise to sunset, they looked at the sky and said: 'Sun, when will you set? For we are thirsty, and there is no water.' Those who moved, moved. Those who stayed, stayed – and the desert became their mother. Now they are unafraid, and they no longer ask for water."

Matron Evita paused, casting a glance at the narrow dirt road that led to the open desert. She pointed. "That trail leads to largest desert on this continent. It is hard and cruel – and you will become cruel, too. You, too, will look at the sky and ask the sun if it will set. You will ask for the rains to come, and they will not. You will walk the trail to the end like the Old People. And when you come out, the desert will bless you with good grace, and see you as its children."

Matron Evita's speech was firm and fiery, but it did little to encourage any of the girls. Many stared at their feet; others watched the sun creep ever closer up the horizon. Toes fidgeted on the sand. Matron Evita's boots, old, worn leather boots fashioned in the military style, kicked up no sand, and critters fled wherever she walked. She wore the apparel of the Sandanistas _,_ dark greens and yellow scarf both, pressed and freshly ironed. Her hair was always in a tight bun at the back of her head with not a single strand loose. Matron Evita stopped suddenly in her march, inhaled through her nose, and faced the girls again. She straightened and gave them all an even look.

"And if I find that any one of you is a _tramposa,_ you will never be allowed to come back from this desert. The desert knows how to deal with those with no sense of honour. Is that clear?" A lone finger pointed at them from end to end.

The girls nodded in unison. Matron Evita, pleased, motioned for the girls to follow her. They were led to a large open-end truck, the sort used to transport troops. The seats had been ripped out, leaving skeletal metal remains and thin wires overhead for the girls to grab onto. Each one sat side by side, cramped like cotton stuffed in a toy. Matron Evita walked to the passenger side, pleased that she would sit in an air-conditioned cab, and got in. Soon, a wave of sand was kicked up from under the tires, blasting the unfortunates that sat on the end.

No one said a word for the rest of their short trip.

* * *

Paz had the luck to sit near the cab, where she could see the silhouettes of Matron Evita and the driver. She could see Matron Evita laugh at the driver's jokes; she couldn't hear her laughter over the engine, but she had learned early on to gauge someone's emotions based on their body language. Matron Evita may be a curmudgeon, but, as it seemed, she wasn't above jokes and enjoying the little things in life.

Griselda was near the middle. She stared at her bare feet like the other girls, refusing to make eye contact with anyone. Earlier that night, Griselda had started whispering to the others that sleeping would be useless. 'There is no point wasting energy in the daytime', she had said. 'Go at night. That is when it is cooler.' All of them knew that they were going to be sent on these survival expeditions; they were told early on by other matrons that it was a part of their training and a test of their loyalty to Cipher. Some of the girls were excited at the prospect of becoming the favourite, and others dwelled on their predicaments in silence.

Their levels of survival expertise varied. Hunting, fire expertise, finding water, weapon crafting – it all varied based on each individual. Some even preferred to sleep through the day and let others do the hard work, and others feared crushing a bug under their foot. It was an ensemble of mismatched girls. A 'mismatched mariachi band', as Griselda would later call them.

They'd all had knapsacks with supplies in them for the expedition, but Matron Evita's abrupt announcement that morning was a clear proof that they would not be allowed to use them. As Matron Evita had said, they had all been pampered like favoured daughters, but now it was time for them to grow up. They would become proper women, now: fourteen, fifteen, sixteen and seventeen-year-olds to enter their second phase of maturity.

Now, with only their bras and underwear on their bodies, they would march through the desert. It was a no-holds-barred scenario: you were given full permission and rights to do whatever you wanted – and had to – in order to survive. You were not punished. Your rewards only mattered as much as your psyche. After you completed one trial, you were thrown into another, and you did it again. The first time will always be difficult, but after time, it becomes a fact of life. The 'being' in 'human being' is removed, making it easier to kill something without a name.

Today they would begin their exodus.

The truck stopped at a junction where a small sand dune had kicked up. The hiss of brakes and the crunch of tires on arid soil made every girl shift. Like a group of owls, all heads were swung in Matron Evita's direction when she opened the door and walked out. Hands on her hips, she took a deep breath, exhaled, and turned with her arms wide open. A smile, wide and gleaming with triumph had the reassurance of a skull painted on a sign before a minefield.

" _Mis hijas!_ Welcome to your new home!" Matron Evita clapped her hands. "Now that you are all awake, you can see it as I can. Come, come, and let us see all its beauty."

The girls filed off the truck at the rhythmic clap of Matron Evita's hands. The ground was coarse and hard, with deep cracks like ravines from a year without water. They formed single file, tallest to shortest, arms clasped behind their backs. Their chins were raised and attention focused on the domineering form of their matron, who never once tore her watchful eyes from them. Had one shivered, or shifted, or cried or tried to run, she would let them run. She'd wave her hands in farewell like she was bidding goodbye to a sibling. She did not need a dog on a chain leash eager for the chase. She did not need a weapon. She would let the environment act as her executioner. If a girl thought she could run back into her hands after she behaved badly, Matron Evita would throw them back like used handkerchiefs, and she would wrinkle her nose if someone mentioned the girl's name.

"My little beauties, what we see here is a true wonder of the world. The Chihuahan desert may seem like an empty womb, but it has many children," Matron Evita announced. "You can find them if you are smart. There are no trails to follow. We are at its entrance, but there is grass in the lowlands. There is the Sierra Madre Occidental in the west, and the northwest the Sierra Madre Oriental. Whatever direction you pick, once you enter any human settlement – a house, a shack, even the border towns of El Paso and Monterrey, you will complete the trial. Come back in your wholesome pretty self, and you'll be rewarded further. You have nothing but the clothes you have on. Be grateful. You could be completely naked."

Matron Evita stopped. A light, dry breeze swept across her face, ruffling the scarf and a lone strand ever so slightly. It made her look young.

" _Mis hijas,_ my beauties, know that I am not your enemy anymore. Take a good look at those that stand beside you. The girls you shared your food with, slept on the same mattress with, and laughed with, will no longer be with you. They may not die, but their spirits will never be yours to own again. You leave my arms now. I cannot protect you." She paused. "God is on your side. Blessed are his daughters who will inherit the earth," she finished. She made the sign of the cross.

She extended a hand out towards the desert. "Today, you shall go from _conejas_ to _vaqueras! Adios!"_

Her voice thundered like a hunter's call, scattering them like white rabbits among shrub forests of yucca and mesquite. She could spot a few who were crying, hands wringing at their eyes to save their tears.

Matron Evita watched them and shook her head. They were already making mistakes. She'd be surprised if one even made it to the end of the week. Then she heard what sounded like a pebble bouncing off a tire, and moved her head to find the noise.

There was that little blonde, the American Spaniard, moving with a calm and steady gait, as if the desert was no more than a speck of dust to be wiped from her cheek; that young girl with a face that would never age. Matron Evita would have scoffed at such a statement; that thing was going to be burned three times over before the day was done. Her white skin would peel away like the skin of an onion. But Matron Evita did not say it out loud. The girl from the ocean may wash up on the shore, but the salt would wash up, too. _The salt never parts from the ocean, no matter how far away from the waters we are._

Matron Evita pursed her lips. She would have to pay more attention to that one.

* * *

It wasn't long before the heat started to burn her shoulders. Based on the position of the sun in the sky, Paz reckoned that it was afternoon. Heat permeated from the ground in thick waves; it had to be nearly 110 F, maybe more.

Skin was already starting to peel, sweat was clouding her eyes and exhaustion was setting in her bones. It was only the afternoon. She had to conserve what water she had inside her body – and she had to find some to drink. Shutting off the want for water was tricky, but it could be done by pure focus; the need for water was far more demanding, and when lips started to chaff and tongues swelled and filled the mouth like cracked, spoiled toffee - that was a sign you were nearing your limit.

Paz had followed an inlet, an old dried up creek bed, to a group of trees she had spotted on the truck ride. None of the other girls had bothered to scout their surroundings as the truck moved. They must have assumed the knowledge would come to them on the go, no different than how muscle memory knows what proper key to touch on a piano or the proper bullet to slide into a rifle's chamber. But when need arrived in the form of blisters, cramping stomachs, and a manic state, muscle memory was next to useless. Desperation sets in, and any plant you find seems edible until it went through one end and came out the other. That was one experience Paz didn't want to repeat. She could not say the same for the other girls.

By tearing the girls out of their beds in the pre-dawn hours, limiting their food and water intake that night, and forcing them to undress to make their trek through the desert, Matron Evita was testing their resolve. How good would young women grown plump with fine foods, smelling of perfumes with lilac and rosewater, perform in situations totally foreign to them? How would they feel having their hair pulled as they were dragged out of bed and shoved outside in an empty courtyard and then marched through empty schoolyards with nothing but a black bag over their heads? How long would these orphaned daughters last in a part of the world that they had gone to great lengths to avoid? Even an orphan whose meals were scraps left behind by rats and who drank water from plastic bottles someone had thrown away would find that life to be luxurious compared to being pecked at by buzzards. And, as Paz could see, a few had found their first meal of the day.

A honey mesquite tree became her friend that afternoon. The ground was warm but comfortable, and there were plenty of limbs and leaves on the ground for her to weave a hat and some meager attempt at clothing. Her underarms were damp, but she wasn't losing as much water as she thought she would in the heat. The hollowed inlet had offered shade, and when Paz walked in a slow crouch she managed to avoid the sun completely. There were a few trees up on a hill ahead of her, but with the sun still high in the sky, it wasn't worth the risk. When the day cooled, she could walk up there and hope to find a hollowed log or a pit where, hopefully, there'd be some leftover condensation from the morning. If not, there were the cactus plants – but that was an absolute last resort, as their juices, though refreshing and near-heaven for thirst, could cause vomiting and diarrhea, and many more were inedible depending on the season.

For now, Paz wasn't worried. She'd hit a stroke of luck. She didn't have to worry about food for a few days; if hunger popped up, she could nibble on the mesquite's seeds. She had three weeks to spare. She had plenty of time. All that was needed was water, and she'd find it soon.

Matron Evita's speech on how the Chihuahuan Desert appeared to be an empty womb was not without truth. From the edges of Texas to Mexico's interior, the desert was the largest in North America, and contained some of the most biodiverse species of any desert. Many species of shrubs, yucca, desert flowers and cacti stretched from end to end, and near the horizon she could see the caps of one of the mountain ranges. The scarce trees that grew were wound like French curls, and steam rose from boiling rocks that sat beside them. It was a dry sauna out here. She could see buds appearing on the wildflowers. That _could_ be a good sign, since flowers bloom only when the conditions are right – and flowers, like any vegetation, meant water. But venturing out into a sauna was not a wise idea. A human standing upright, with no protective clothing, sunscreen, or hats, would lose pints of water very quickly.

Paz elected for a short nap to pass the time. After gathering branches and leaves and binding them together into a simple lean-to, she crawled under and nestled her head on her arms. It was by no means the lumpy, yet workable mattress she slept on earlier that morning, but it would have to do. You did not complain in the wild. She closed her eyes and allowed sleep to come before her mind registered the pain that swam through her body: the burnt skin and eyelids, the sandblasted face, and split open toes from dodging scorpions and sharp rocks. Even an expressway has its dangers, and though Paz swore she would not take unnecessary risks, she took them when they were needed – and when she wanted to. She had to wait until nightfall. There may be coyotes, frostbite, psychedelic mushrooms, but it would be better than it was now. She had to be patient.

Her sleep, however, was temporary. Her ears picked up the sound of sand hitting her lean-to, too heavy and deliberate to be a rattlesnake or an insect. She sat up, grabbing a nearby rock she'd picked for protection. It was not a knife, certainly not her special knife, but it would work.

But a brown face, boredom writ large with thin lips, and a flat forehead with what looked like charcoal on her cheeks, peeped in the lean-to's entrance. Paz gave a resentful cry at the newcomer. "Of all people...!"

The newcomer did not so much as twitch a muscle. She just scooted into Paz's shelter. She waved what look like a green sac in front of Paz, and in it, she could hear water sloshing. Paz stared.

"I got food. You want some?" the newcomer asked. She didn't mind the rock in Paz's hand and moved to sit beside her.

Paz arched an eyebrow at this nonchalance, matching it with lively sarcasm. "By all means, come in. I was having a party."

The newcomer shrugged. From a bag she had tied around her waist she pulled out a long, silver studded rattlesnake. The brown rings and signature band on its head looked like smeared pastel colours; the animal had been dead for a while.

"A Great Plains rattlesnake. Where did you find that?" Paz asked, mildly surprised. "They live towards the north. I didn't think they'd move so far out here."

"There are plenty of mice," her friend answered. "They ran away from the crops, and they don't eat the food because of the poison the men spray. They run, and the snakes follow." She placed the animal on the ground. Hunger wasn't an issue at the moment. The sacred liquid swishing around in that leafy water sac was.

Paz ignored the temptation. She examined the snake instead. "One of Matron Evita's children," Paz said to the dead animal. "Pulled from the womb."

"And now we will eat the stillborn child," the friend replied. "Do you have kindling? Your shelter is too small. It will burn down before you catch a spark. You should have made it bigger."

Paz would have rolled her eyes at the matter-of-fact complainant, but she only thinned her lips. She did not want to burn in her own fire from her lack of diplomacy. If such a thing happened, her new friend would dance beside the flames with arms spread wide to the world, and sing for rain with a blackened corpse of an age-old enemy from the south as an offering. The desert, seeing the dance of the Old Ones, would respond with a dance of its own. What mattered is how Paz matched the steps.

* * *

They called her Diamondback, which served as both a nod to her heritage and to her personality. She was born Navajo, but lived in Mojave territory in Death Valley. Her parents, disliking the tribe – and the tribe mutually disliking them – moved back to New Mexico. They'd lived on a reserve, taught their child their rites and customs, made her speak her ancestral language and English, brought her Western books. But Diamondback decided one night to leave, and she never gave a reason as to why. It could have been boredom, it could have been rebellion, but unlike the others, her parents had loved and cherished her. She was their last living child, all the other sons and daughters succumbing to diseases that the Westerner had abolished in his tribe. It was unknown what her motives were. She just did what she liked. And that made her dangerous.

Diamondback liked to insult the other girls in Navajo, especially if they were from other tribes. If they cried or yelled back she'd stand with her hands behind her back, face stone-solid, taking their reactions like an offering. When Diamondback was punished for infractions: sleeping in, over-eating, or plain disobeying, she took the pain like a true Native woman: stoic, never wept, never grunted in pain. She absorbed them all like wayward spirits; she was a dream catcher.

Diamondback had skinned the rattlesnake with a sharp rock, placing the innards on a nearby rock outside to dry. The skill came to her with ease. They'd expanded the lean-to by grabbing more branches and tying them with bundles of mesquite branches. When they finished, Diamondback muttered thanks to the tree for its gracious offerings.

Paz whittled sticks and created a small fire, making sure the smoke was concealed enough so it would not act as a beacon. Starting fires was one of Paz's specialities; she could start one by flashing a mirror and could work miracles with a shard of glass. Diamondback left that skill to her while she skinned and sliced their meal. She offered the water sac for Paz to drink. They shared it between them as the snake cooked, taking the already cooked pieces with sharp twigs.

Paz nibbled on her morsel. Though she hadn't eaten in nearly two days, Paz did not have an appetite. Likewise, Diamondback was slowly chewing hers, watching the embers as they sparked and burned.

The relationship between them was not friendship. It could not even be called companionship or mutual agreement. It was a matter of: 'You are here and so am I. I won't touch you and you won't touch me.'

Paz didn't bother to ask why Diamondback bothered to come to her shelter. It was suspicious. Paz had made sure no one had followed her route. She hid her tracks, didn't waste too much energy, and didn't claw at every available surface for food or water. Her nonchalance was her guide, and now it had drawn an indifferent tourist. She eyed the rattlesnake's head. She suspected the teeth were still in its mouth, since Diamondback had thrown aside it aside once she started cutting.

Diamondback never spoke much to Paz. When they were first introduced, Diamondback, with her blue-black braids hanging down the front of her shirt, prattled in Navajo. Noticing that the pitch was dropped in some areas, Paz knew that she was being insulted in another language. Paz acted hurt by her remarks, and, with the suddenness of a grumble of thunder, shot back in Nahuatl. Then the stoic Navajo girl showed the slightest hint of an angry frown.

They finished their small meal and drank sparingly. Paz did not ask where Diamondback got the water; she probably would never tell. Paz would have to find out on her own, if she was able to slip out during the night. Eyeing her clothes and the bag hugging her waist, Paz knew Diamondback had hit pay dirt. How many she'd stomped over, that was a guess. She got her supplies quickly and efficiently, and Paz had only sat under a tree. There were no flares of jealousy.

But suspicion simmered. Soon it would spark like the snake on their twigs.

* * *

As a rule, Paz never fell into deep sleeps, even when exhaustion overwhelmed her. Deep sleep was alien to her. She either had naps or periodic sleeps where she could snap awake at the sound of toes cracking in boots or a drop of sweat on her nose. Her senses grew keener as she lay prostrate, preparing her body for spring-tail moments of escape and evasion. Sleep deprivation did not bother her, because fear was her caffeine, her opium. Her fingers traveled to her thighs, longing for her knife. It was still under her pillow back at the commune.

Diamondback slept on the other side of the shelter, her back to her, likewise thinking the same. They were not stupid. They were waiting for the other to make a mistake. If Paz had made a mistake allowing Diamondback into her shelter, then Diamondback also made a mistake by relying on Paz for said shelter. Reliance was a weakness in survival. You made tools, not friends. You improvised, not relied on.

Before they settled into their brief rest, Paz noted that the rattlesnake's head was close to her. Using touch alone and ensuring Diamondback had forgotten the head she'd tossed aside, she edged her fingers toward it, curling her fingers around the curved fangs in its now-cold mouth. It would start to rot, and soon. She may not have had her knife, but this would do.

Diamondback shifted. Her form was like a moving shadow: every action motionless and opaque, blending into the wider black world. Her blue-black hair still had its sheen, even in poor light.

Paz felt the setting sun on her eyelids. She opened them. The orange ball was swiftly disappearing, the sky splashed in violets and azure. The insect symphony was starting. The heat left her skin.

The shadow moved.

Paz knew it was coming, but she couldn't have prepared for the strength and agility so cleverly hidden by the Navajo girl. In the span of five seconds, in a space less than five feet across, Diamondback struck like a puma, landing on top of her and wrapping her legs around her trunk. Her hands, rough and calloused, clamped around her neck. She started to squeeze.

Strangulation is not an instantaneous affair. Unless the blood flow to the brain is cut off, unconsciousness does not come quickly. Manual strangulation can take anywhere from two to three minutes. By using both hands and legs, Diamondback was aiming for cracked ribs, punctured lungs, and a crushed voice box. It was double insurance: if one failed, the other would not.

The air was siphoned out of her lungs like a pinched hose, and a sharp wheeze was sharply cut off as soon as Diamondback tightened her thighs. Her ribs were buckling, and soon they would snap. The action forced Paz to sit up, as Diamondback was gaining more leverage to crush her chest. This obscene wrestling match was nearly over, and it had not yet been a minute.

The normally stoic girl was straining from the effort, and spittle landed on Paz's cheek through her bared teeth. The focus of her black eyes so matched the rattlesnake she was named for: unmoving, patient, reveling in the suffering of her victim's life. It was all etched on her face.

Diamondback wanted to see the wide pupils; imagine the dots and lights swimming in Paz's vision. One last squeeze from her thighs would complete the job, and she would hear the snap of bones and the wet sound of her lungs.

But it was Paz who struck first.

The scimitar fangs sailed into Diamondback's cheek. Paz dragged them down, taking skin with them. Diamondback screamed, hands flying from Paz's neck to her face. She fell to her side, scrambling at the dirt. A wailing sob tore from her throat. Paz stood up, clutching her chest, and watched the Navajo girl thrash and throw kindling about. Her nails were already gone.

Paz fled the shelter, leaving the screaming girl behind. The venom would set in quickly. If she was lucky, she'd last an hour. Maybe half. It didn't matter. It was one less obstacle for Paz.

She watched the sky. The sun was no more than a golden mirage on the horizon. Paz panicked.

 _The sun rises in the east and sets in the west - I have to go north. North, north...what's in the north? Ciudad Juárez! I need to go there. It's in the northeast. Just follow the sun, Paz, follow the sun...follow it while you can._

Paz sped off north – there was no way she could find shelter now, and there was no time to prepare. Ciudad Juárez was her final destination. Without knowing the time, distance, or exact way to get there, Paz only knew to head in north. As long as she could find any building, she could atone for her errors and welcome the congratulations that were sure to be given. Ciudad Juárez, the lost border town and world of Mexico, was going to be her stop.

She jogged north, the sauna of the day turning into a chilly one. Steam hissed and was replaced by bits of frost. Petals from cacti fell to the ground. Ciudad Juárez was going to be the border town of this violet, wine-red and persimmon desert world of glass.

* * *

She was as dry as papyrus, ready to crumble away. Ocotillo, creosote, yucca and tarbush dotted the landscape with their thirsty yellow, greens, and browns like some large, extinguished campfire. The heat had returned in temperatures of 105 – 110 F, and the water she had taken steps to preserve had been taken by the sauna. The sight of these stumped little plants made her whimper in defeat; it was a cruel trick that these plants, living here for centuries upon centuries, could live as they did and watch as a creature of civilization fumbled and sobbed. The creosote fell apart in her hands when she pulled at their leaves, the yucca biting into her blistered skin. She pulled at one branch and threw it to the ground in anger. Cruel tricks from cruel things.

Her first day of good luck ended when Diamondback attacked her. Paz, in her rush to escape the shelter before Diamondback could retaliate – people on the verge of death could still kill – did not grab the water pouch the Navajo girl had made, opting instead to find water on her own.

That had been days ago. She had lost track of how long she had been out here.

She had found some insects to eat, but all that did was make her thirstier. She mentally smacked herself for not knowing better; you didn't eat when you were thirsty. Your body would just use more water to digest the food you ate. It had been cooler at night, but cold enough to make the tips of her fingers numb and freeze the flapping skin from her feet and shoulders. She'd lost her hat and meager clothing somewhere in her fits, and now her underwear and torn bra remained.

She rested in pits she dug out for shade, as there had been no trees to sit under, and the heat had only climbed. When evening approached, her body was bathed in sweat, and she longed at the sight of the droplets as they fell. That was water, and she was losing it.

She had lost sight of true north, and didn't know if she was heading east or west. Mirages toyed with her vision and what looked like buildings in the distance were only shrubs and rocks. She whimpered. She wanted to cry, but she did not want to lose her tears. She wanted to pound her temples for being so stupid, but she couldn't find the energy for it. There was another honey mesquite, a dead one with no pods, and she collapsed spread-eagle under it. Her tongue flicked out to wet her lips, but it got stuck in her mouth.

 _The desert knows how to punish cheats,_ Paz thought. _It separates us._

Ciudad Juárez was her prime objective, but she wasn't sure where she was. She could be near El Paso or near the Sierra Madre, Occidental or Oriental. How was she to know? All that was white was yellow, and all that was yellow was blue. Unless 'north' decided to gallop up on a steed holding a sign, she wasn't going to find it. She made idiotic mistakes, so idiotic that she didn't even _think_ of grabbing the Navajo girl's water sac. Who knew? She probably laced it with something only she was immune to. Maybe it was a better idea if she left it behind. Did it really matter? She _really_ needed water. Even her thoughts cried for it.

She twitched her fingers. She did not have the strength to grimace at her warring thoughts that continued to dart around.

 _Just a little longer. I can wait until evening. Please hold on. Please hold on for me. I'm sorry. I'm sorry I cheated. Will you forgive me?_

It was probably useless to apologize. She didn't know rain dances or prayers for that sort of thing. If she tried it, she'd probably offend whoever was up there. Matron Evita hadn't been joking.

She was on the move again at evening, or the hours before evening. Though thirst was killing her, her body moved on its own volition. Her mind may have run in loops and circles, but her body acted on its own. She obeyed it. She walked. She kept walking.

She found a group of buzzards flying overhead. It was a good sign: buzzards fly towards water, and they are never far from food sources.

 _Another girl must have died,_ Paz thought. _I hope they won't get impatient and start on me._

She reached an incline and climbed it, hands grasping at sand and hot roots. At the top of the valley, sand gave way to thick, straw-like grass, too exact and plentiful to be a mirage. Had she walked all the way to the grasslands in the high desert?

 _Grasslands mean birds. It isn't a mirage if I hear birds. They are too loud for my thirst to play tricks on me._ The buzzards grew vocal as she approached. She followed their calls to a lump of white and red in a bed of crushed grass; upon close inspection, it was a hollowed and cleaned out human body. She could see torn strands of hair around the body. A large buzzard dipped its head into the dead girl's navel, coming up wet. It turned its scaly neck at her for a moment, waited, and continued eating. Another joined it shortly after.

Paz moved on. The birds were busy with the girl's corpse, and would not come after her unless she disturbed their meal or if they decided that she was the better one. Their scaly necks dipped in and out like one of those wooden drinking birds people put in front of their glasses. Behind their necks, in an outline hidden by the swaying grass, was an outline of a crumbling building. She had to blink a few times to make sure she wasn't hallucinating. When the bricks didn't go away, Paz leapt like a ballerina.

 _Is that a house? A church? Oh God, please don't let this be a mirage. Please don't let it all be in my mind! Please don't! –_

Sand filled her mouth as a sudden blow from behind knocked her down. She choked. She rolled on her back and saw that another girl was standing over her, a large rock in her hand. A huge gash on her thigh bled through caked dirt, and, like acting like a flare gun, the buzzards turned their scaly necks towards the newcomer. Paz crawled backward on her elbows, feeling for a weapon of her own. She found none. She reacted.

There was enough strength in her to deliver a swift kick to the girl's knee. She could feel it give out under her foot, and the girl, like Diamondback before her, buckled and screamed. The rock fell in front of Paz. She wasted no time. She grabbed it and threw it down on her attacker's head. Her forehead split like ripe fruit and the buzzards, waiting on the sidelines like vocal cheerleaders, fell on her. She muttered thanks to them as she ran, heaving and coughing, to the little church through grass that cut her legs and snagged her hair. She ran until she shoved open the door.

Her knees fell hard to the floor in the doorway's entrance. Her breath came back to her weak from the warm stone. She groaned and closed her eyes. Finally. She had done it.

A pair of old boots emerged in her blurred vision. Paz did not need to open her eyes – did not want to – to know who they belonged to. Hands applauded like cracks of thunder in her spinning conscious.

"The ocean has returned to us. Well done, my girl. Now you are a real _vaquera."_

Matron Evita's face hovered over her own. The stern despot that had dictated to a line of girls so many days ago ran a soft hand along her back. A tear escaped from Paz. She was lifted and settled into Matron Evita's lap. A smile, deep and crinkled near her lips, made Matron Evita appear, perhaps only once, like a mother.

* * *

Notes:

\- There will be frequent snippets of Paz's training exercises before she settles into her official role of Pacifica Ocean. I tried to make the desert scene interesting, but I hope I didn't bog it down with unnecessary info. The desert experience will be referenced in other chapters.

\- Ciudad Juárez, before it was the infamous cartel town, was a border town that boomed in the 1950's and 1960's. But when the drugs started moving in, the town slowly become the murder capital of the world.

\- The use of the word 'Old People' is a reference to the native peoples that were present in the area pre-colonization.

\- I may switch between using Fahrenheit and Celsius. I'm more familiar with the latter than the former.

Translations:

 _Mis hijas -_ my daughters

 _Coneja -_ rabbit (feminine version)

 _Vaquera -_ cowgirl

 _tramposa -_ cheater (feminine version)


	4. Act I - II

**II**

* * *

Matron Evita may have had the attitude and style of a Sandinista, but there were times when the first part of her name suited her personality. Paz, suffering from severe dehydration and numerous second-degree burns, had been stuck on a bed for the last few days. How many, exactly, she wasn't sure, but Matron Evita hardly left her side. Matron Evita soothed her skin with aloe creams and other herbal remedies, her touch so light and soft it didn't feel as if she was being touched at all. Her hair was washed, soiled sheets were changed, and when Paz's skin was healed enough, she was welcomed to a cool bath in a large, old copper tub. She would even sing lullabies with her low, lyrical soprano, a voice so unlike her that Paz wondered if the woman was another in disguise.

Matron Evita cradled her like a weeping newborn when she collapsed in the church. She spirited her away to a cool, shaded room, with white sheets like oleander. Strips of gauze fell to Matron Evita's feet, salt and sugar and bandages littering the stony earth. A cup was put to Paz's lips, the water swirling with her blood. Her throat bobbed with the effort. Matron Evita stroked the girl's head as she slept. A low sigh escaped from her nose. Paz slept as they days passed, waking only to drink and have her bandages changed. She often fell asleep as Matron Evita worked.

One day, she started singing one of the songs of the revolution, humming of the victories of Che and Castro. As her eyes closed, Paz's opened. The thick brown eyelashes hung low and wide like a spread net, the only soft feature that offset the sharply curved mouth, the short nose, the sloped chin on the mocha-coloured skin. The blooming flower on the cliff. She was beautiful.

"Why...why are you singing?" Paz's voice came out as a hoarse whisper. It felt as though her throat would crumble.

Matron Evita's eyes opened, a dark jade rich enough to be worn on a caudillo's hand. She didn't answer but put a jug of water to Paz's lips. It tasted sugary.

"Sugar for the blood, salt for the water. Drink easy, my girl," she said softly. She wiped a dribble of water off Paz's chin with her thumb.

Paz sighed in relief, and looked up at Matron Evita. "Why are you singing?" she repeated. Her voice was stronger this time. "It sounds...beautiful."

Matron Evita closed her eyes again, smiling. "I do not have the voice of the opera, but the voice still desires to sing. So I sing. It eases. It soothes. It calms. It brings sleep. That is what you need."

"What is the song? I haven't heard it before." Her voice cracked. Paz coughed to correct it.

Matron Evita shook her head. "Do not speak. It is not good for the throat."

Paz continued anyways. "What is the song?"

Matron Evita waved her hands, as if to say, 'alright, alright'. They landed on her lap. "Have you not heard of the songs of the revolution?" It wasn't a question of impatience, rather one of curiosity. It was rare for people not to know them since they were popular all over Latin America. Bars in border towns, farmers, librarians hoarding socialist books, people in all those places sang them.

Paz shook her head. "No. I did not get a chance to hear them. I was only nine when the Revolution ended."

"Still, even America speaks about it. The universities may play their songs. They are the voice of social change." Matron Evita paused. "Ah – you were a _vagabunda_ then, yes?"

Paz nodded.

"So was I, at one point. I remember those years. Students turned against students, capitalists versus communists. Red versus the red, white, and blue. I never thought a line in a book or a thought out of someone's head would make them go wild, but I learned a lesson from those days. No matter how learned one is, or where they come from, they will throw it all away when they find a weed in their garden. Dangerous thoughts are not dangerous if everyone shares them – and weeds are not weeds if they think themselves as flowers."

"I was lucky to be nine, then," Paz said. "I can't imagine seeing such craziness."

Matron Evita laughed at that. "I was nine once, too. We all were. But we turn into adults. Whether we are any wiser from those years is up for us to decide."

"And what if others decide?" Paz asked.

Matron Evita's eyes glittered. "Then we find ourselves hunted and cornered in whatever space we run to, and while we are on our knees, our enemies think, 'What children they are for running from us.' That is why _we_ must decide. Us and no one else. Then, you will find yourself holding the gun, and your prey is on their knees. Make your enemies think that they are children, not them to you."

A door opened behind Matron Evita. Another matron, dressed in white, called out to her. Matron Evita rose. She turned her head to her.

"The salt never parts from the ocean. Do as well as you do, and Cipher may just pick you as his favourite. But know that if he decides to salt the earth, you have no chance of growing. Be the one that holds the gun, not the child."

The door was closed, leaving the memories of the Revolution to lull her to sleep.

* * *

Paz had been in worse shape than she initially realized. From her first day in the Chihuahuan desert, she hadn't expended much energy aside from building her shelter and looking for water. Her first location was in a lucky spot: honey mesquite and several cacti had been growing in the area, and there were plenty of insects that scattered from hidden holes. Her scouting had worked, and she had bought herself a whole day. But as soon as Diamondback entered her tent and attacked her, things had split apart like a ceramic jar. Paz's ribs were bruised and a few were broken; there were major burns on her back and shoulders, and she was extremely dehydrated. According to the nurse, she said that Paz had cheated by several days, and pushed longer than was thought for a regular human. Hunger was not an issue, but there was urine in her blood and she had difficulty with bowel movements. When she did eat, she vomited. She was put on a liquid diet.

The days interceding her flight from her shelter to the church was sparse in her memory; all she remembered was walking. She might have fainted here and cut her leg over there, tore out her nails digging for water and hitting her head against rocks from madness. Going from day one to week one or whatever – it was all hazy. The memories may never come back, or if they did, in bits and pieces. They would only be replaced by harsher experiences.

It was some time before Paz could eat regular food again. Her first real meal had been fish with lemon and peppers, and the smell of it nearly made her faint in pleasure. She ate like a pigeon, not wanting the food to escape her mouth or stomach. She enjoyed the feeling of being full.

They had moved to an empty colonial mansion on Monterrey's outskirts. They'd sat in air-conditioned cars on the way there, but the diesel fumes sneaking through the vents made the passengers open the windows instead. The desert bounced and rolled past them, a highway of creosote, yucca and whitethorn acacia that thumped against the siding. The heat was not a bother, not under the roofs of leftover old Fords. Girls stuck their heads out windows and let the desert wind sail through their fingers, the same desert that had almost reduced them to bony remains weeks before.

Out of two dozen young girls that waded through the desert, there were seven girls left. To Paz's surprise – shock and revile both – Diamondback had survived. Her face was huge and swollen, with protruding purple veins and seizures that held her captive through the night. Anti-venin was given to her, reducing the swelling and the open sores, but there was the question whether the venom had affected her brain. Patience would bring results.

Griselda del Rio had also lived, but she had a piece of her thigh missing from a roaming coyote. She was quarantined and given rabies shots, wailing as needles poked the open skin. She, too, was under watch for deterioration. She recovered earlier than Diamondback, and walked out a week later, hobbling to a table where she ate saltine crackers.

The church Paz found had been a torn-up shell with parts of the roof caved in and the basement hatch fused to the stone floor. Many of the rooms had been knocked down from looters stealing bricks, and the chapel had rotten wood from the pew's remains. A broken cross was affixed to the confessional's door; it seemed the thieves were pious enough not to offend the idol. The smells of dust and old wine were an unwelcome addition; it made everyone feel sick, even the matrons, who complained it smelled 'like an old sick room.'

The colonial mansion in Monterrey was a pleasant contrast. It was done in the Spanish style, with curved inward steps leading to an archway over the main entrance and white stucco walls on the exterior. The Baroque style featured high towers, tall windows, and arched walkways with balustrades and granite steps that opened to courtyards with shallow pools. It belonged more in the wealthy communities of Monterrey than on the border towns. Nevertheless, its handsome and simple appearance was a welcome change from weeks of being in the Chihuahan desert, with running water and generous pools serving as bonuses.

The girls were allowed to roam the mansion, so long as they did not leave the property. Many chose to go to the pool in the main courtyard, a medium sized circular shape with blue inlaid tiles and a smaller side pool with rose petals floating in it. Mexican passion flowers and morning glories served as extra company; the entire house was brimming like a horticultural museum. More of these flowers were in the hallways, bearing passion fruit and hanging in brightly painted pots in the classic Mexican style. In the other rooms, chocolate cosmos blessed tables and shelves with their wine-red petals. Paz saw a bundle and sniffed; so they _did_ smell like chocolate. Too bad she couldn't eat them.

Paz sat on a hand-woven carpet in a room on the upper terrace. There was a breeze up that moved through the shutters, and the sloping roofs added much needed shade. She reclined lazily, back flat on the floor. After days of lying motionless on a hard, thrown-together hospital bed, the cool stone felt good. It was the first time in days that her back stopped stinging, and weeks since the blisters started to heal. Aside from the sound of splashing water and giggling girls below, Paz was alone.

A hand traveled to her thigh. Matron Evita had ordered the girls to go back on their teas again, but Paz had skipped hers. She poured the contents into any nearby plant she could find, present her teacup to the Sandinista, and stick her tongue out. Matron Evita did her examinations and left. Paz would go back to what she was doing before, but this time, she waited. She wanted to see what it felt like to be a woman. The stories of stormy women with cravings and pain and bloated stomachs did not bother her. She was a late bloomer – her breasts were nubs, no more than swollen bumps – with small hips and a small frame. She was sixteen, but looked like a prepubescent girl. The others, like Griselda for example, had already started to become women with breasts that poked from their shirts and legs yet to be shapely. She was envious of them, those young girls that were becoming the polished apple of the exotic fruit bowl, appraised and ready to be devoured.

She wanted to _feel_ it. She wanted to feel the warm stickiness between her legs; see the spots on her bed sheets. Sure, it would be messy and disgusting, but she wanted to feel, to _know,_ what it was like to be a woman. The others had gone through theirs and were happy to drink the teas, but Paz wanted the experience. The teas could stop the blood, but they couldn't stop that other feeling – the one that wanted to know the touch of a man.

They would get foods for that, too, she knew it. They were tools. They weren't women. They'd never _be_ women aside from physicality.

Sadness swirled in her stomach. What would it be like, to be touched like that? Was it as good as they said it was?

The sinking got worse. _I'll never know. I will probably die a virgin,_ she thought sadly. _My basket won't be taken by the wolf. I'll stay in this damned body of mine, listening to the others enjoy theirs...this is a cruel joke on me. A cruel joke._

Boots on stone rang out like cricket bats, resonating throughout the thick walls and sending pollinating bees buzzing away. Paz snapped to attention, listening to the footfalls. A head appeared at the top of the stairs, followed by a sunflower-yellow scarf. Matron Evita emerged, two large duffle bags in each hand and a toothy grin on her face. Her eyes were covered by a pair of thick sunglasses that were probably imported. She set the bags down, tucking a strand of hair that had gotten loose back into her bun.

"Now that you're all rested up, are you ready for your next assignment?" she asked, every word dripping with mirth. The grin remained.

Matron Evita's chirpy behaviour crippled Paz's spine. She swallowed and eyed the duffel bags, heavy and cumbersome like there were bodies inside. She hoped there wasn't.

"Yes...?" Paz managed.

"Good!" Matron Evita exclaimed, throwing out her arms like the spinning fans overhead. "Get your uniform on and come out to the back courtyard. It's time to see how good your eyes are." She reached down to one of the duffel bags, unzipped it, and took out another. This one was long and thin with bumps on the bottom. She handed it to her.

"Open it up," Matron Evita instructed.

Paz did so. Bundles of clothing were wrapped around the object like a hastily made care package. The bumps on the bottom turned out to be boxes, no bigger than a Rubik's cube. She pulled them out one by one. They were unmarked. The object sat on Paz's lap. She didn't like the weight.

"Keep going," Matron Evita urged. "You're driving me crazy!" The Sandinista started to pace.

Her uniform was at the bottom of the duffle bag, a smaller version of the Sandinista guerrilla uniform Matron Evita wore, but in beige desert camouflage. She folded them into a neat pile. She started to untie the cloth around her 'gift', untying piece after piece of fabric. Paz herself was going to go crazy from the wait.

Her gift was presented to her. Like a quetzal fluffing its plumage for a mate, the presentation given to Paz was just as grand. On her lap was a Mosin-Nagant M91, the stock of clean polished wood and smelling of lubricant. The scope fell into the bundle of cloths. Boxes of bullets opened up. Her hand grazed the stock.

"Finally!" Matron Evita exclaimed, throwing her hands up. "I was half-dead from suspense!"

 _You? Half-dead?_ Paz thought, astonished. _I'm sitting here with Death in my lap, and_ you _are the one half-dead?_

Paz's face was the pallor of a daisy, and had the Sandinista not been in front of her, she would have fallen apart like its petals. The Mosin-Nagant rested on her lap. The grin did not leave the Sandinista's face.

* * *

Translations:

 _Vagabunda -_ wanderer (feminine version)


	5. Act I - III

**III**

* * *

The Mosin-Nagant was heavy, but not so that Paz couldn't carry it. She followed Matron Evita to the back courtyard on the other side of the house, the Nagant's stock hitting Paz's bottom as she walked. She tried to keep up with Matron Evita's pace.

"Tighten that strap. I would tell you to get rid of it, but I am going to teach you a rapid-fire trick with that rifle," Matron Evita called out over her shoulder.

Paz fumbled and tugged at it. It wouldn't cooperate. She huffed.

"Put your left arm through the loop and wrap it around. Keep it tight to your chest. If you can feel it tighten around your bicep, then you did it correctly," Matron Evita instructed. She didn't skip a beat.

Paz followed her instructions. "Is it meant to be uncomfortable?" Paz asked. The strap was tight around her arm. It felt like a bad-fitting shoe.

"All weapons are uncomfortable," Matron Evita replied. "If they were meant to be comfortable, everyone would use them and we would get nowhere."

They wound their way through hallways, past open courtyards, and lines of white balustrades that flaked paint. Matron Evita brushed past a hanging pot of sunflowers to a hidden door. She pulled a key out of her pocket and stuck it in the lock, turned it, and pulled on the heavy, rusted handle that might've been iron at one point. Matron Evita tugged on it; the door almost didn't want to open for her. Paz trotted up beside her and helped pull. The hinges relented. Matron Evita rubbed a hand against her forehead.

"Little bastard wasn't going to open for me," Matron Evita said. "I would have liked knocking it down."

Paz said nothing. The Mosin-Nagant hung against her thigh.

"Don't let it swing about," Matron Evita said sternly. "That butt stock isn't made of stone. It can break if you are careless with it. And what did I tell you about tightening that strap? Tighten it now, and don't ever let me see that rifle swing like a baseball bat again. Do you understand?"

Paz nodded. She tightened the strap until Matron Evita looked pleased. She beckoned Paz to follow her.

They went through the door together. A dry wind brushed Paz's cheeks. She looked down. The courtyard had no fences, vegetation, or flowers of any sort. There was a hole dug in the ground for a pool, but it seemed the project had been discarded. Broken pots, rubble, shingles, and bits of shiny bronze were strewn across the courtyard to its edge where it blended into the desert. It so contrasted the miasma of flowers and painted stone that it resembled a Cuban backyard.

A shaky breath escaped through Paz's nose. Those bits of bronze weren't pool additions or forgotten gold inlays from construction projects. The reality was far more sobering.

 _Those are bullet casings. They bring people out here and throw them into that pit._

Matron Evita stood beside her, surveying the area. She noticed Paz looking at the hole. "You're a quick learner," she said.

Paz's lips opened and closed. "What are we going to do?" she asked at last. "Are we...going to shoot someone?"

"No!" Matron Evita laughed. "You're just holding that weapon as a fashion accessory. _Of course_ you are going to shoot someone with it!" She patted Paz on the shoulder.

Paz swallowed. She knew how to shoot a gun – handheld guns, mostly, Beretta M1951s and M1911s, but not high-powered rifles. The Mosin-Nagant would be her first.

Her fingers drummed against its smooth stock. It did little to calm her. She went to re-adjust her strap that had fallen loose during her distracted reverie, but Matron Evita's hand intercepted her own.

"No, no, no," Matron Evita said. "Put your arm _through_ the loop, just like I told you. See?" Matron Evita took the rifle from her and demonstrated, putting her left arm through the loop and holding it tight to her chest. "Now, try again."

Paz did as she was told. Matron Evita nodded her head in approval. "Hold it tight to your shoulder. The recoil will knock you back, so you must ease into it. With a frame as small as yours, this will take extra work," she said.

Paz fumbled with the rifle. It acted as if it didn't want her to hold it; she would have dropped it had it not been for the strap. She huffed in exasperation.

Matron Evita clucked her tongue. "I am amazed you scored high with handguns."

"I've never shot a rifle before," Paz protested. "This is my first time."

"Soon it will be your fiftieth, and if you hold it as bad as you do now, you won't shoot a single thing," Matron Evita answered with a tone like sour milk.

 _This woman is never pleased! How many personalities does she have, anyways?_ Paz humphed. The Sandinista was as wild as the San Juan River.

After a few tries, Paz finally managed to hold the rifle per Matron Evita's standards. She adjusted her stance according to protocol, holding the rifle tight to her shoulder and leveling it with the horizon as one would hunt for birds. The wind was negligible, so there wasn't much of a need to adjust for wind speed. She eased the trembling in her hands with even, calm breaths.

"At least you have gotten one lesson mastered with firearms," Matron Evita noted. "Keep your breath steady and your fingers off the bolt. The safety isn't on, so I better not hear any loose shots. I'm going to bring out the _porcos_ soon. I expect you to be in position and at the ready. You are not to do a single thing unless I tell you to."

Paz watched as Matron Evita thumped her way down a set of stairs, the bun on her head bouncing and nearly coming loose. Her rowdy voice rang through doors that were slammed open and shut.

Paz's fingers drummed against the rifle's underside. It was awkward to hold. The Beretta and the M1911 were easier to master, as they were smaller and she could hold the grip with both hands. It took a while for her to get used to the recoil, but once she had, she could fire them easily, almost from the hip. She'd felt proud during those days. That was before the Sandinista had taken over as head matron and where congratulations were replaced by bitter criticism.

 _I will get used to this, too,_ Paz reassured herself. _It is easy to dictate terms to someone without a weapon. Just like a country with nukes can dictate terms to one without them._

There were muffled sounds coming from under the terrace, accompanied by shuffling footsteps. Paz leaned over the balustrades, searching for the source.

A person – a man, it looked like – was thrown forward to the ground. A black sack covered his face, and his hands were tied behind his back by coils of rope. She could see that they were bleeding. A groan came out of the sack. He was followed by another man, and two more followed tied back to back. They squirmed and thrashed like men on gallows. Paz blinked at them, wondering who they were. The Mosin-Nagant, almost by instinct, tilted towards them. Paz moved it back.

Matron Evita strolled towards the bodies. One of them managed to get an arm loose, and was about to untie his other hand when Evita's heavy boot crashed on his arm. The snap of his bone was crisp as a breaking saltine cracker. The man did not yell, but groaned under his breath. With no close walls and nothing in the way to obstruct noise, sound traveled far. Paz could hear everything as if she were standing right next to them. She could hear the men cursing.

There was a new addition on the Sandinista's uniform: a holster containing a polished .357 Colt Python. She must have brought it as insurance in case the men decided to get grabby. Though the men were by no means weak – they all had a degree of muscle mass – and well-fed, Evita must have done quite the damage to them. Their clothing was tattered and stained with blood, and through the holes Paz could see awful bruises. Many of them were boot prints belonging to the Sandinista.

The leading man writhed like an earthworm away from the others. Perhaps he hoped that he could get far enough away so he could find his feet and run. But Matron Evita would not let him get away; her fingers drummed her Colt Python's holster, ever eager to use it. She strolled calmly toward the man and kneeled next to him. She took the Colt Python out and put it near his mouth.

"Listen to my voice, _traidor._ Listen well. The _Madonna_ has decided that you will be fortunate today, so my Colt won't find its way to your heart," she told him. She placed the gun near his temple. "And it won't find its way to your brain, either. It is too bad, because it begged me to kill you all night long. I had to stroke it and say it had to wait until morning when _mis hijas_ returned to me." She cocked the weapon. Its sound stilled the men – except for the lead man.

The man in the bag mumbled and shook his head. He raised it enough to be eye-level with Evita, though she was probably just a fuzzy shape through the thick material. There were muffled words. Evita leaned closer.

"What was that? You're going to have to speak –"

Evita's head snapped back from the man's head butt. She cried out, the Colt spinning near the man's direction. _"Hijo de puta!"_ she screamed.

Paz watched the man stumble to his feet, rubbing his arms in frenzy until the ropes snapped off. He pulled the bag off his head. The man was sunburnt and bruised, with dried blood around his mouth and broken teeth that poked at his lips. He spat a glob of phlegm at Evita's body. He cursed at her, and then limped away near the exit, towards the desert. Matron Evita's Colt Python was in his hands. Paz's fingers gripped the Mosin-Nagant, which by now was following the man's movements, the sight lining up with his body.

She held the stock tight to her shoulder as Evita told her to do. She pulled back the bolt. The sound of the ejecting round rang sharp through the courtyard.

The man, hearing it, turned to face her. She could see him in her crosshairs, the edges of his frown deep in his misshapen face. There was blood in his ears and nicks in his forehead, and the eyes – hazel – shone with nothing in them. She did not see fear. The Colt Python went up.

The Mosin-Nagant kicked sharply into her shoulder, but she hit her target. The bullet exited the man's head in a red dart. He fell.

The other men stopped squirming. They all turned their heads up to her.

Matron Evita rose to her feet, cradling the gash in her head, and looked up. Her face was as empty as a bare chalkboard. She left them all there with the sound of her boots echoing in the halls.

* * *

Paz sat on the sofa, still as granite, wanting to disappear under the cushions. Her Mosin-Nagant sat in front of her on a glass table, the shells all expended, and the strap lying idle at its side. It shifted on the table whenever Matron Evita thundered by. It, too, must have been afraid of her. The Sandinista was cursing in rapid-fire Spanish, waving her hands and tugging at her hair. A bandage had been taped on the wound on her head, but Matron Evita had torn it off during her episode. It landed on the ground and was crushed underfoot. A trickle of rouge ran down Evita's head. She acted as if it was not there.

"What have I told you? _What_ have I told you? You do _not_ act on your own volition! You take orders! If I tell you to shoot, you _shoot._ If I do not tell you to shoot, you _do not shoot._ It is as simple as that! And what do you do? You shoot a man with a gun you cannot handle properly! How does that shoulder feel, girl? Does it _hurt?"_

Paz's hands went farther into her lap. "But the man - ! He was going to kill you! He took your gun and - !"

"Did I say you could _speak?!"_ Matron Evita yelled. "No, I did not. You will sit there and you will _listen._ You have been a very stupid, stupid girl! I don't care if you made it out of the Chihuahan Desert. You're as good as dead to all of us, including Cipher." Evita's jade eyes were as murky and harsh as a swamp. "Do you think he cares if you live or die? You're an object. What do objects do? They _operate._ Does an object operate on its own? No! Someone _else_ does. And if you're a broken object, what do we do? We _throw it out._ I am this close to –

Matron Evita was pinching her fingers together when a knock at the door broke her out of her Castro speech. She wheeled towards the door. "Who is it? It'd better be important!"

The door opened, and another voice – this one male – answered in Spanish. Evita glowered at the newcomer, fists tightly clenched on her hips. Meanwhile, Paz continued to sink into the sofa, waiting for it to be over.

Lectures and insults were not new to Paz, but she could never get over the intensity and outright hatred people exalted when they were in that state. Her fear slithered out of her in those moments, and all she wanted to do was jump out of an open window or throw herself underwater in a tub. It was strange, because when it came to girls her own age who acted that way towards her, she'd throw their attitude back at them. But adults, and a Sandinista no less, you simply did not talk back to them unless you were hoping to outwit them. Paz did not possess those talents yet, and until she did, her main instinct was to cower. The awful feelings came afterwards, when Paz tormented herself with thoughts of what would happen if she _did_ decide to talk back.

Matron Evita snorted, turning to Paz one last time before she left. "We will continue our conversation later," she said. The door closed.

A relieved sigh nearly made its way out of Paz's mouth until the newcomer walked in front of the table. Paz looked up and had to make sure the adrenaline wasn't making her hallucinate.

" _Che Guevara?!"_ she exclaimed. A hand covered her gaping mouth, hoping to hide the sputter that came out.

The newcomer frowned a little, and then his mouth broke open in a healthy laugh. He flashed his teeth at her. "We may share the same name, _chica,_ but I'm not El Che. _La Cia_ hasn't gotten me yet!" He laughed again. He held his hand out to her. Paz hesitated.

"Don't be shy. I'm not as nasty as that _pantera._ I am Ernesto. And you must be the _hija_ who made it through the desert. Well done," he said.

Paz took an instant liking to him. She returned his handshake.

The resemblance between the dashing guerrilla fighter and Ernesto was striking, almost astonishing; this Ernesto could have easily posed as his double. The cut of his hair, his styled beard, and the untapped energy that poured from him all matched Che's. What differed was that this man was taller and wider in the chest, and his skin was shades darker. Che had Argentinean background, but this one looked like he was from South America's interior. He saw the Mosin-Nagant lying on the table, dissembled and broken like a causality of war. He seemed to note the irony.

"So, the _pantera_ is mad at you because you killed a man you shouldn't have," he said. "And she lectures you while you sit on a velvet sofa. The woman doesn't seem to understand subtlety."

"He hit her," Paz said. "He took her gun. He was going to shoot her with it."

"Yes, I saw the injury," he replied. His boot touched her bandage. He looked down at it. "It appears she wants to show it off as a trophy."

"I just did what I thought I was meant to do," Paz explained. "I thought she would have yelled at me to shoot him. There was a pit there, you know, a pit where they dump bodies of people that run away. I saw the bullets. I thought Matron Evita was going to tell me to shoot them all and let them lie there until they died." Paz quieted. She bit her lip. She didn't want to cry in front of this man.

"Hey, now, there is no need to shed tears," Ernesto said soothingly. He moved to kneel in front of her. When Paz didn't want to look at him, his fingers gently lifted her chin.

Paz couldn't stop the red that dotted her cheeks. Ernesto's face had a strong jaw and a smooth chin, and what looked – and felt – like smooth skin, too.

"Do not let the _pantera's_ words cut you so deep. If you do, then she will see you lower than you already are in her eyes. What she didn't expect was for you to prove that you were not as weak as she supposed," he told her. "Yes, you shot a man that you were not ordered to. But a gun doesn't care what it kills, and neither should you. The man is dead, not by Evita's hand as she wanted, but yours. She is angry that you took her kill and humiliated her in front of her prisoners. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Paz replied quietly.

"Tell me. Was that your first kill with a rifle?"

"Yes," Paz said again.

Ernesto nodded once. He let go of her chin. "There is a difference between us and others. Can you tell me what it is?"

"No. I would tell you the wrong one."

"Tell me the one you do know."

"That it is easy to dictate terms to someone who is unarmed when you are armed. Even if they do not speak the same words you do, they understand what it means when a weapon is pointed in their face. They will fight back at bluffs, but shake in the face of true power. That is the difference between us and them," Paz said.

Ernesto watched her closely. He seemed impressed with her speech; he did not speak nor raise his voice to intercede. He tilted his head at her.

"You are an intelligent girl," he said. "A girl that has seen and given death, but has innocence written all over her." He stood up. He walked to the door where Evita stormed out earlier. He put his hand on the doorknob.

"How old are you, girl?" he called behind his shoulder.

"Sixteen," Paz answered.

Ernesto set his jaw. "It's almost time, then."

Paz was left alone on the sofa.

* * *

Notes:

\- The funny thing about Not-Che is that, as this part of the story takes place in 1966, it is one year before Che was killed.

\- The Beretta M1951 was replaced by the Beretta 92 in later years. It is commonly used by police forces.

\- The Mosin-Nagant, seen in the game, is a powerful and popular rifle. The trick Matron Evita talks about is a rapid-fire trick where you hold the stock tight to your body with your cheek on the stock where you can fire off rounds in succession. The original video is named 'How to fire a Mosin-Nagant quickly and accurately.'

Translations:

 _Traidor -_ traitor

 _Mis hijas -_ my daughters

 _Hijo de puta -_ son of a bitch

 _Pantera -_ panther


	6. Act I - IV

**IV**

* * *

It had been Ernesto's idea to take the girls to Monterrey proper. He told Matron Evita that the girls needed a proper break instead of being cooped up in a 'desert henhouse'. There were words tossed between them; Paz, Griselda, a puffy Diamondback and a few others crouched under an open windowsill, listening to the hellfire Evita was casting on the man, and the easy, almost delighted, rebukes he tossed back at her. His jokes were returned with even more damning vocals, almost to the point of Evita threatening to send a boot into his gut. Eventually, with a loud, operatic huff of defeat, Evita consented. Ernesto made his grand entrance in the living room, telling the girls to wear their best clothes and pile into 'The Tank Engine', the name for the Ford 1962 Galaxie that ran like a train engine. Evita followed behind in her jeep.

The girls remained quiet until they pulled onto Federal Highway 85, where they started chatting amongst themselves like bunched canaries. The lights of civilization excited them; they were starting to grow accustomed to seeing any light of humanity as a miracle from above. Paz watched it all in silence. She followed the taillights of other cars, most of them worn old things stragglers had bunched together from scrap they salvaged from the many towns on the outside of the city. Many cities in Mexico had a strict rich-poor divide, almost obscenely so, and while the occupants acknowledged it existed, all of them were happy that they didn't live in those conditions. Ernesto's Tank Engine was like a Rolls-Royce compared to other vehicles.

Ernesto took the exit and followed the signs until he reached the lazy, brightly light streets of Monterrey. These parts of the city were slightly older, with none of the high rises and institutes that were popping up in the main metropolis. This was the cultural centre: theatres, cathedrals, cantinas – things the average American tourist would visit. The streets were quite clean, and a few street-sweepers swung their brooms across the sidewalk dutifully, keeping the sand, dust, and pollution away from their designated square. A few uniformed policemen stood at street corners, trafficking people across the street.

Evita, seeing the police officer, swung her jeep ahead of the Tank Engine, the scream of rubber tires grabbing the attention of pedestrians and scattering them like beetles. The brake lights flashed, accompanied by the all-too-familiar-screech of brakes, and the jeep was parked against the sidewalk. It was a jab at parallel parking and the 'Do Not Park' signs that stood on the street. Evita stepped out, unconcerned with the bewildered looks of passersby, flicked her scarf over her shoulder and glared at the policeman, a dare for him to raise his voice at her or give her a ticket. The whistle dropped like a kite string from his lips. Satisfied, Evita strutted to the sidewalk, popping a stick of bubble gum into her mouth that she grabbed from her pocket. To see her stand there with an oversized blouse tied in a knot behind her back, material too thin with the outline of her bra showing, dark sunglasses, and her classic boots holding up loose green trousers, she was the picture of a rebel female rock star. The pink bubble that grew from her mouth only added to that image.

By contrast, Ernesto wore a simple dress shirt with green trousers with a matching jacket. He, too, wore sunglasses over his eyes, though that was probably because he didn't want people to think _El Che_ was vacationing in Mexico again and that a revolution was imminent. He didn't have much of a wardrobe aside from the jungle attire, but he wore it well as a civilian uniform. He opted for a cigarette to put into his mouth.

The girls filed out, dressed more or less the same: frilly skirts with pressed white blouses and shoes that were not-quite Mary Janes. Griselda opted for heels. Diamondback had her moccasins with a leather jacket over her blouse; she mumbled that she hated 'looking like a mink.' Paz was the boldest of them: she wore a full dress that ended just below her knees, with the sleeves starting below her bare shoulders. Straps fell in threes on each arm, and the bodice sagged near her midsection due to her not having a large enough bust to fill it in. The boldest touch was her shoes: fashion boots that reached her knees in tan leather. She didn't see the label on whether they were French, Italian, or American. Her bare legs were sure to attract attention. In Monterrey, in Nuevo León in particular, you could dress casually, but you still needed to be professional. There were to be no bikinis or bare feet.

Evita crossed her arms at the sight of Ernesto's easy grin. She blew a bubble, popped it with her teeth, and moved down the street. The others followed her.

* * *

Griselda spat out her cabrito, making a show of rubbing her tongue on her napkin. She nearly knocked the bowl over.

" _Asqueroso!"_ she yelled. "That is not the way cabrito should be cooked!"

Paz ate her carne asada in peace. She pointed her fork at her. "Maybe you should go for beef next time."

Griselda glared at her. "Maybe these _el burros_ should learn how to _cook,_ next time."

Paz chewed another bite. Griselda grabbed another napkin and rubbed it furiously against her mouth. It seemed she couldn't get the taste out of it.

"You can ask Matron Evita for a stick of gum," Paz suggested. "She might have peppermint flavours."

Griselda spat again. She grimaced. "I _hate_ bubble gum!"

"Why not?" Paz asked. "It's quite fun when you get to make bubbles."

"If I wanted to do that, I can get a bottle of it and blow them through a wand," Griselda complained. "Otherwise, I will not eat those slimy pink sticks that turn into hard balls in your mouth!"

Paz giggled. Griselda eyed her again. "Don't you even think of making one of those jokes!" she warned.

"Don't worry," Paz said. "I'm too busy eating my carne asada. Do you want a piece?" Paz offered a strip of steak to her. "The beef will get the taste out."

Griselda sniffed. Her grimace eased into enticement. She took the piece with her fingers and popped it into her mouth. She said nothing for a few minutes after she swallowed.

"Well? What do you think?"

Griselda's eyes bulged. "I think I better get my hands on some carne asada, _pronto."_ She walked over to an idling waiter and whistled at him. He disappeared into the kitchen.

Diamondback was picking at her dulce de leche con nuez. Her food looked like a fallen brown snowman, a crater in her bowl.

"You don't like it?" Paz asked her. She kept eating.

Diamondback continued poking her food. "No."

"Why not?"

"The milk is powdered, not condensed," she said. "It's almost sour. It clumps at the bottom."

"Wow," Paz said, wrinkling her nose. "It looks like the chefs are having a bad day."

"No. It is because they don't like what Matron Evita is wearing. She is disrespecting them."

Paz looked around the restaurant. When they had entered it, Matron Evita announced that she'd reserved the whole place for her entourage and if the establishment had anything to say about that, they'd have to go through her. The cashiers, managers, and waiters all stared at her like she had come from Area 51 with three heads and grey skin. They noticed the group of young women behind her, and at her side, Ernesto stood, an impish grin barely hidden on his face. Evita marched through the restaurant like she built, ran, and owned the whole place, sat down at a table she liked, and called for the waiter. After the shock of her tenacious attitude had passed, the manager went into a back room to the phone. He returned after a lengthy period, leaned down to Evita's level, and said a few words to her that were promptly dismissed with a hand pushing away his face. The manager, clearly affronted, moved back to the room with the phone.

His offense was transmitted into the food. No one ate their meals aside from Paz, whom the manager instantly liked. He'd called her an 'angel of the world', and gave her the express dishes. Hers was the only one untouched by whatever foul play was done in the kitchens.

"Mine's not bad," Paz said. "It's pretty good, actually."

"That is because you have the yellow hair," Diamondback said. "And the white skin. They like to see that skin."

"I'll have you know that I am part –

"I know," Diamondback interrupted. "Go and insult them in the Old Tongue, then. They will treat you like Evita, only worse."

Paz sighed through her nose. Diamondback speared a piece of her sticky treat with her fork, as if it was a dead animal she wanted to poke. Diamondback muttered under her breath.

"What was that?" Paz asked.

"I was only joking," Diamondback said. Her black eyes lifted to Paz's level. She was hidden in the dark, since the lights in the restaurant were few and sputtered with shortening light bulbs. The light from one of the nearby lamps gave a pomegranate shade to her skin. She lifted up her treat. "They like you because of your spirit. When you walk, people follow. When you speak, people listen. When you move, people watch. They sense your spirit and it makes them feel good."

Paz slowly chewed a piece of her carne asada. The medium-rare steak was melting in her mouth, and she could taste the pepper sauce that had been glazed on it. She spoke after she swallowed. "And that is why they give me good food?"

Diamondback sniffed her treat. She let it hover near her mouth. "No. They give it because you are better than Evita. You have more power than her."

Paz wanted to snort at that statement. Power? If she didn't have a weapon in her hand or a spot to hide where she could listen to people, she was next to useless. She was hasty in decisions, and desperate for a multitude of reasons, some of which she couldn't find at the moment but knew they were there. She had barely survived Chihuahua, whereas Diamondback had secured food and water. Now that young woman sat across from her, permanent violent scars on her face hidden by a parting of her hair, and she was telling _her_ that she had more power than Matron Evita, the Sandinista who, to all of them, was as enigmatic as she was passionate and harsh.

Was it that otherworldly knowledge that belonged to nomadic peoples, or was Diamondback just reciting words from a book she had read?

Paz was going to ask just that when Diamondback's fork was thrust in her direction.

"You can avoid it as much as you like, but you need to be careful. Evita watches you with a dark eye. She is going to do something to you."

"What? What is she going to do to me?"

"You need to be careful."

It was all the Navajo girl said. After poking her food through the whole conversation, Diamondback finally put the treat into her mouth.

It wasn't until after they left the restaurant had Paz noticed that Diamondback had called the Sandinista 'Evita' rather than by her proper name.

* * *

"Can't we see the Cathedral? It's not that far away!"

" _No._ I don't have time to cart around you ninnies like Mother Theresa."

" _Ernesto!_ Please, please can we see the Cathedral?"

" _Pol el bien de Dios!_ Why are you asking him? He isn't in charge!"

"I'll think about it."

"What? Don't you dare, you –"

The lively conversation had bloomed when they were walking down the street to the theatre. Elena, a Catholic who was told to get rid of those roots but couldn't pull them out yet, begged Evita, and then Ernesto, and back to Evita again until a stalemate was reached. Elena eventually forgot about the debacle when a street vendor offered to give her a set of marigolds to wear in her hair. She joined the group, twirling with enough energy for a pas de deux. Evita put another stick of gum into her mouth. Ernesto had another cigarette.

Waves of discontent floated off Evita. It was clear the restaurant experience didn't settle on her shoulders, and it was because of Ernesto's casual air and adroitness that saved the establishment from being razed to the ground. The one thing everyone knew about Evita was this: when she is angry and vocal, you are in good hands. When she is not, you had best prepare for a month-long siege. Ernesto offered another suggestion to cool her down: a trip to the theatre. Both cultural and Western films were played there, and in the private theatres you could watch anything. Ernesto had favours owed to him and he managed to secure a private theatre in the home of a popular real estate leaser, though the man wasn't an official one – he sold properties to the 'invaders' poor farmers and workers that fled to the city for work. They had nothing to pay but he made huge profits from tax-free labour and property costs. Besides, Ernesto had resources of his own, and should the man not make good on his promise, then his 'enterprise' would disappear like money tossed away in blackjack.

The building they arrived at wasn't a theatre at all; it wasn't like the lavish, classic yet modern theatres Monterrey was known for. There were no pillars, no red carpets, no fancy stained windows or deluxe elevators. There were no mosaics, paintings, outdoor cafés or anything resembling the changing social atmosphere a decade earlier. It was just an average five-story apartment building, clean but nowhere near the bustling glitter of the metropolis; a plain and ugly reddish-brown hovel. Elena vocalized her disappointment.

"I thought we were going to a theatre...," she said sadly.

Ernesto patted her on the shoulders. "Don't look glum," he said. "Don't make proper judgements unless you see the whole thing. Let's go inside. I'm sure you'll be happy."

Elena sniffled. She sounded like a bulldog sucking in air. Griselda rolled her eyes and muttered, "Girl never stops complaining."

Ernesto led them in. They followed him through a set of twisting hallways until they reached a staircase that led to the upper floors. They ascended them until they saw a set of double doors. Ernesto trotted ahead, grabbed the handles, and threw them open like a chauffeur with the flair of a bull-fighter.

The girls peered in. Elena shoved her way to the front, took one look, and exclaimed, "This isn't a theatre! That is a _television!_ Look at the size of it! It looks like a truck!"

Ernesto's beam failed to soothe the girl's discontent. She snorted and crossed her arms. Matron Evita stepped forward and shoved the complainant in. She stuck a finger in her face.

"Do you realize how many people would pay out of their _culos_ to get one of these? They don't even have so many in _America,_ let alone Mexico! For once in your short little life, stop being a _mocosa_ and be thankful for what you are given!" Evita leaned closer. "You should be out in the jungle, _perra._ You can do your little dances and see how many bullets you dodge there! You won't have anyone giving you pretty flowers to wear unless you're a corpse in the ground."

Elena's face contorted in a battle of upset and anger. Her nose, looking even more like a pug's, scrunched and Elena turned on her heel to sulk in the hallway.

Ernesto and Evita shared a private look. Paz caught a glimpse of it, but whatever message there was had already been sent. Ernesto turned to the rest of them with a smile.

"Alright then, _señoritas_! What do we want to watch first?"

* * *

"We should watch the 'Manchurian Candidate'. I heard it's amazing!" Griselda put down a newspaper where she was looking at new releases. The idea came to her when an ad featuring re-runs of the film blared in its blue-and-red poster in the 'popular releases' section. A classic, and released the same year as the Cuban Missile Crisis, it reflected the growing tension and political intrigue that affected both major players in the Cold War – Washington and Moscow – and how a single man could undo years of espionage and coercion. Her finger tapped the inky poster. It seemed like a good idea.

Diamondback lay on a rug on her stomach, swaying her feet, glued to whatever scene was playing on the television. Paz wasn't aware that the girl was a huge fan of cinema, and that when it came to screenplays or actors and actresses, she transformed into a bright, almost giddy, person. Not at all like the one who nearly crushed her chest. "I like that. I have always wanted to see Manchuria," she said. Her attention didn't waver from the screen.

"Manchuria?" Paz asked. She sat on a little blue cushion, tying her hair into a lopsided braid. "Why there?"

"I want to see the land untouched by the Red Chinese," Diamondback replied. "Not just Manchuria. The jungles are lush and huge over there. I want to see the moths."

"I didn't think you'd be into them," Griselda said. "All they do is fall apart in your hands."

"I think they're pretty," Paz said. "Aren't they called 'butterflies of the night' in French?"

Griselda gave a dry laugh. "Yes, and they burn nicely, too. That doesn't mean I have to like them."

"You are cruel to animals," Diamondback said. "Even the ones which are not dangerous."

" _Excuse me_ for getting Dengue fever when I was young," Griselda said hotly. "I hate insects with a passion. I'd rather see them exterminated from the Earth."

"Ooh, that's a big word for you!" Paz laughed. "Where'd you learn it?"

"A dictionary!" Griselda spat.

"When did you learn to read?" It was Diamondback this time. Her lips twisted in a wry smirk. "Are you going to quote me Hemingway?"

"Who?"

"What a shame," Diamondback said. "It truly is a farewell to arms."

Griselda threw down her newspaper. "If you two are going to sit there and make fun of me, don't expect me to keep quiet!"

Paz put up her hands. "We won't bother you anymore if you don't want us to," she said. "It's just harmless fun."

"Harmless?! It's one thing to hear it from you, but from the _other_ one? Do you think I'm stupid to be caught in the middle while you –

"Quiet! It's getting to my favourite part!" Diamondback shushed them both. Griselda frowned. She wasn't used to being interrupted, and to be shushed by the normally quiet Navajo served as a bit of a shock.

"What movie is it?" Paz spoke up. She diverted the attention from Griselda's simmering irritation. She scooted closer to the screen.

"It's ' _And God Created Woman.'_ While you two were giving movie suggestions, I started playing this one." She nestled her chin on her hands. "You should come and see. The Americans banned it from playing in theatres."

"Why?" Paz moved to sit beside her.

"Because of _her."_ Diamondback pointed. Paz settled into her cushion and followed Diamondback's finger. She paused at what she saw on the screen.

The woman was lounging on the beach with another man, legs bare and shapely, smooth and pale, with her light hair loose around her. Her clothing was scanty, barely meeting the requirements of what a proper woman should wear. The shape of her bosom was prominent as were the other parts of her body, but there was no shame in seeing it. It was erotic and beautiful at the same time, a celebration of the female form while not being openly pornographic. Paz was gaping; she'd never thought she'd see a woman so proud and protective of her body like the one she was seeing. The character in the film had no problem seducing men old and young alike with her fierce independence and use of sex alike. It was the feminine wile made flesh.

"Who is she?" Paz asked in awe.

"She's Brigitte Bardot," Diamondback answered. "The star of France. She was so risqué in this film that it is no wonder Americans wanted the film banned." Diamondback shook her head. "It's a shame."

"She's beautiful," Paz said.

Diamondback moved her head so that she was looking up at Paz from an angle. She watched her for a few minutes, lips pursing and straightening with thoughts not yet voiced. "You look so much like her," Diamondback said at last.

"Huh? No I don't."

"Yes, you do." Diamondback sat up. "But your hair is too short and your eyes are too blue."

"The film is in black and white," Paz pointed out. "How can you tell what colour her eyes are?"

"Her eyes aren't dark enough to be brown," Diamondback said. "And you don't have her bosom yet."

Paz turned away so her blush couldn't be seen. But she'd turned into Griselda, who made her blush harder. Griselda peered at the screen. " _Dios mío_ , you _do_ look like her," Griselda said. She snickered, and then it turned into a full-blown laugh.

Paz covered her face in her hands. She groaned.

"Don't be ashamed," Diamondback said under Griselda's chortles. "It is good that you haven't turned yet. It will come when it is ready."

"Why?" Paz asked. "Why is it good that it hasn't come yet? Everyone else is changing but me! I don't even _look_ like a woman, and I'm sixteen!" She whimpered. "How is it a good thing?"

Diamondback's warm hand caressed her shoulder. She leaned close to her ear. "Beauty is pain. If Evita sees you grow beautiful in her presence, she will do whatever she can to strip it away. We are not meant to be beautiful. The ones that are become ugly from misery. We are Cipher's creations, do you understand?"

Paz wanted to nod, to accept that reality, but she was too busy absorbing Diamondback's words like a fish breathes in mercury. She was being poisoned by a silver metal.

"Your heart is good, your spirit better," Diamondback said. "Evita will not break them."

"Who, then?"

"You."

Diamondback went back to the television, and the voice of Brigitte Bardot engulfed her tumultuous thoughts whole.

* * *

Notes:

\- Carne asada is beef usually served as steak in slices. It is seared to give it a charred flavour.

\- Cabrito is young goat kid that is roasted over a spit. There are many variations of it.

\- Dulce de leche con nuez is an almond treat served with milk in a bowl.

\- The film 'And God Created Woman' was considered 'racy' by American film standards. It didn't stop it from being a huge hit in Europe.

Translations:

 _Asqueroso -_ disgusting

 _El burros -_ dumbasses

 _Pol el bien de Dios -_ For the Love of God

 _Culos -_ ass

 _Mocosa -_ brat (feminine version)

 _Perra -_ bitch


	7. Act I - V

**V**

* * *

Guilty night habits can range from sucking one's thumb, holding a stuffed bear or lamb, having the night light on at all times, or a security blanket kept since the swaddling newborn years. These items, worthless to others and which, by the time the owners are adults, crumbled and holey, are sacred to their owners. The night, the act of sleeping, is when the mind flees from the terrors it suppresses during the day, and finding comfort in these trivial things eases the pain. Sleep comes easy that way.

In Paz's case, she did not have a teddy bear or a blanket. She had her knife. An Aztec ceremonial knife with a history in human sacrifice, the usual obsidian or stone blade was replaced by Toledo steel. The handle featured the traditional malachite, turquoise, and mother-of-pearl, with more inlaid Spanish steel. There were orchids engraved, the petals white pearl and the stems green malachite. It had a curved blade meant for quick slicing and removal, and was about half the length of her arm. It was the single most expensive thing she had ever owned in her life and her only childhood memoir. Years spent walking through sewage-lined streets, birds defecating on her head, and drunkards tossing their empty bottles at her did not make her want to sell her knife. She would rather sleep under a bridge with trains running day and night, the sound driving her eternally mad, than give it away. As her anchor, it gave her comfort and determination for the new day and made her feel safe. Toledo steel made some of the world's deadliest swords, and it was this steel the Conquistadores used to shatter her ancestor's old way of life. The duality of it made her feel both proud and hesitant to use it.

After returning from Monterrey in an impromptu theatre and binge film watching session, the girls were sent to bed. Evita and Ernesto stayed up late, and through the open windows Paz could hear their rushed whispers as they conversed in the dining hall below. It wasn't like them to do something so brash. Often, they spoke in thickly walled rooms where no one could hear them and where they emerged separately to go their own ways. Evita and Ernesto may have been comrades, but they did not show any indication they liked each other. Evita was impatient and rowdy around him, while Ernesto was too mischievous. Arguments they had in front of the girls evaporated whenever Ernesto made a crude joke. Evita would excuse herself – none too kindly – while Ernesto had to entertain his small party. He didn't have a problem with them; like with Paz, the girls took a quick liking to him. It was hard not to since he was the double of _El Che_.

Paz's fingers cradled her knife. She didn't like the whispers tossed between the two. She hoped that, like other conversations, it would evaporate – nothing more than steam on glass.

The stones rang with the sound of boots. They were not deliberate or slow like the time Evita had marched up the steps with the Mosin-Nagants. They were hurried, determined, purposeful. There was more than one set.

Paz felt a lump grow in her throat that would not go down. Her eyes flicked to the slit under her door, waiting for it to be kicked down. It would not be the first time it had happened to her.

Paz's fingers loosened. If what she thought was going to happen happened, she did not want Evita to see her knife. She would take it away from her, destroy it as she watched in horror, or sell it. Any scenario was terrible to her.

She tucked it under a sheet. If the bed was turned over and the pillows cut open, it would be lost in the whirlpool of cotton. As long as Evita was not too thorough.

Paz waited. The boots picked up in speed, sounding like the hooves of rushing boars across the house. Crashes followed. An ear-splitting scream ricocheted off the walls and into Paz's room as if she were standing next to the unfortunate girl. Ghastly wails trailed behind thrashing feet, slapping against the floors uselessly. The boots plodded to her door. A drop of sweat fell off her nose.

The door sailed off its hinges like a paper airplane, landing at the foot of her bed. Paz sat up in a flurry of sweat and sheets, a cry halfway out of her throat when a clump of her hair was tugged, taking her along with the offending fist. Paz nearly screamed herself, but it died in her throat when Matron Evita's jade eyes seared into her. It had a dictator's grasp on her, heaving her through this night raid. Paz's hands clutched feebly at her hair. Tears spilled down her face.

She was dragged until a chair caught her thrown body. Paz grabbed at it, trying to turn around, but Matron Evita's hands grabbed her midsection and shoved her into the chair proper. A thin cord – cheese wire or piano wire, she couldn't see – was wrapped around her ankles and wrists. It bit into her skin with the force of a bear trap. Paz's teeth sank onto her lips to prevent further screams.

A bucket sat nearby. Matron Evita walked over and wrung a cloth she pulled from it. The water fell into the bucket in steady drips. It seemed more like a crashing waterfall to her.

Matron Evita pointed the cloth at her. Her hips swayed as she stalked around her. The _pantera_ was sharpening her claws.

" _Mi hija._ When did you start being a bad girl?" Poison dripped from her voice like the water from the cloth. The humid air seemed to evaporate. Gooseflesh rose from the score of shivers that traveled through Paz's body.

"I – I don't understand," Paz stammered. "What have I done wrong?"

Matron Evita clucked her tongue. She twisted the rag around her hands. "I don't like _mentirosas,_ girl. I pop them like how I chew my gum. I tease them, blow them out, and _snap!_ There they go. I get all the flavour and I spit them out afterwards. Do you want to be the bubble gum, blondie?"

"I don't know what you want!" Paz cried. "The least you can do is offer proof of what I've done to offend you!"

"There is that word _– again!"_ Matron Evita yelled. "Is that all you live for? Not _offending_ people? You're just an ignorant _muchacha,_ aren't you?"

"Stop calling me that! How can I possibly confess to you of things I have no idea of?"

"You don't give _me_ orders, girl, I give _them_ to _you!_ And if I decide what is true, then it _is_ true. Do you know why? I _command._ You –"

"You don't get to decide what truth is!" Paz yelled back. "If what _I_ say is true, and you have no evidence to prove I am a liar, what does that make _you?_ It means you're a liar and that you should be in this chair, not me!"

Paz watched something incredible. Matron Evita's mouth went agape like the beak of a seagull. The shock did not last long. When her mouth closed and an awful grimace made a leper's mask on her face, the hand went flying.

Paz's face cracked to the side, blood spilling on the floor from her freshly split lip. Her face went to the other side from Matron Evita's other hand, and back again, and again, and again, until Matron Evita hissed through bared teeth. Paz coughed and spat up a glob of scarlet phlegm. Blood bubbled from her nose and mouth.

"The salt needs to be washed away," Matron Evita growled. "All it does is sting."

Matron Evita put the rag in the bucket and wrung it out again. She walked to Paz, grabbed a hold of her chin, and pried her fingers into her mouth. Paz's teeth grazed them.

"Don't you even think of biting me," Matron Evita warned. "Or those pretty white teeth will be gone. Open your mouth," she ordered.

Paz did so reluctantly. The rag was shoved deep into her throat. She gagged and thrashed in her bindings. She felt bile rise.

"If you try to spit it out, you'll only choke," Matron Evita said. "If you vomit, you'll choke on that too. You choke - I don't get what I want."

The bucket was dragged near her ankles. Through her swollen eyelids, she could see the water splash inside. The ripples settled.

Matron Evita leaned her head back. "Open your mouth."

She opened her mouth. The water came jagged and quick, like overflowing rains crashing down levees. Paz wondered if this is what it felt like to turn into a gorge.

* * *

Paz was not afraid of water. She'd learned to swim at an early age, and back then she swam better than she walked. An early case of rickets had prevented her from having a proper gait, so a combination of a healthy diet and swimming eased her bones back into shape. Water going up her nose didn't bother her; her nose might burn and she might have a sneezing fit, but it cleared on its own. She knew tricks from poor village kids on how to get water out of her ears and things to eat and drink to prevent water-borne illnesses. And when there was no safe place on land, when her _compañeros_ turned on her, the water became her security. Breaths were held and under she went, her form melding into the ripples on the surface. She emerged in another place, with those looking for her giving up after a time. Water was a getaway.

But now her perception was changing. The rag was getting heavy in her throat and she heaved with the water's force. Her stomach had had enough of it. It came back up the way it came down. The sight of the rag flying to the wet floor reminded her of the geysers of Yellowstone Park. She was the living incarnation of Old Faithful.

She continued until her stomach squeezed. She sucked in air, desperate and hungry, and it made her vomit again. She gagged and spat out the last of it. She tried to calm herself enough to breathe.

Matron Evita shook her head in disgust at the spectacle. She threw the rag down angrily, then marched over and dumped the bucket over her head. Paz let the water ease the stings on her body. She would have sighed in relief, but Matron Evita's condescension was vocalized instead.

"Look at you. You didn't even last half an hour!" she yelled. The bucket clanged against the ground, the tin shrill in Paz's ears. Droplets swirled around her toes.

Paz wheezed and coughed. She managed to raise her head, and since the icy water had eased the swelling in her face, she could now see Matron Evita in profile: a woman like a continuous pit of magma that bubbled and frothed over when it was ready to burst. To think that she had been so kind after Chihuahua was a bizarre fiction now.

"What else are you going to do to an innocent person? Are you going to put the bucket over my head and whack it with a stick?"

"It's a nice idea, but I think we are done for the moment," Matron Evita said. "I should've expected the water cure wouldn't work on a girl that breathes it."

Paz blinked. She would have raised an eyebrow, but she felt like a plum that had been hit by a hammer. She probably looked like one, too. "Really?" Her words sounded like a desperate gasp, like scrambling for air after being pulled under by a riptide.

"Yes. Really." Evita's sarcasm could've been the sandpaper to dry her out. "Now I have to see what Ernesto managed to get out of that _rata."_

Matron Evita didn't need to move from her position, as Ernesto came in then, dragging a bleeding and moaning girl by his feet. Her left kneecap was in the wrong position and her shin bone was too close to the skin. She tried to crawl to a kneeling position, but Ernesto shoved her back down. The girl sniveled and started to cry.

Paz knew who she was: the plush, polished brown hair that fell straight across her shoulders, the tawny skin, and the marigolds tucked behind her ears. Elena Zapopan. The girl who wanted to see a Cathedral and got a clunky television set instead. Her sulking form was replaced by quiet sobs. The marigold's petals fell around her.

The Sandinista stepped towards her. She kneeled and raised the girl's chin. Paz could sense tension crackle in the air.

"My beautiful girl...why did you have to behave like this? You've been so pleasant to us. Have we not been pleasant to you?" Her coos were deceptive. They might have been sing-song, but they had the dangers of a claymore.

Elena did not move her gaze from the Sandinista. Her throat quivered under the force of a swallowed sob. "I don't care how pleasant this life is. It's a lie – all of it. I just wanted to see how far I could push the limits and see what broke first."

"And why would you want to do that? What black little thought swam into your head to plop this insubordinate manner to the table where everyone could see? Where _Cipher_ could see?"

" _Because you don't let us out of here!_ " Elena screamed. She tore her chin away from Matron Evita's hand, the parched tears now giving way to a wildfire. "Why do you keep us here? You always lecture us on this man who does all these things and what he will do if we don't listen! How can he be dangerous when we don't even know _who he is!_ He could be dead, for all we know! He might not even exist! Why do you force _us_ to listen to him? Is it because we were weak girls you could take advantage of? Is that what we are to you? _Nothing?!_ " Elena's defiance ended in a choke that brought a fresh stream of tears. The marigolds' petals continued to fall from her hair.

Paz waited for the signature _crack_ of a hand meeting flesh. To Paz's surprise, it didn't come.

 _Something else is going to happen, something far worse,_ Paz thought.

Silence fell on them, and the only sounds that broke the lethal calm were Elena's sniffles and the sound of Paz shifting in her chair. Looks were exchanged between Ernesto and Matron Evita. It was their language, that hidden language of guerrilla bandits, torturers, and executioners who pondered what kinds of things they would do to their unfortunate charge. Paz did not know either of their pasts, but she could sense it in their gaits, their personalities: they _knew._ They lived it.

Elena and the others did not. Her spectacle had shown snippets of her personality that were not shown to the others, such as her tenacity and boldness to the point of being stupidly defiant. Paz considered herself mildly stubborn, but not defiant; she may have been sixteen, but she knew the risks of a working tongue when it wasn't meant to move and behaviours that could ruin a disguise. And, unlike Elena, Paz knew what Cipher could do. Evidence of his handiwork was etched on all who worked for him.

Elena was going to be that piece of handiwork that was going to find its way into a smelter. "You're all cowards," Elena spat. "You tell us what to do, what to eat, where to sleep, and when we think we're going to live better lives you throw us into Hell! What kind of people are you? Don't you have any thoughts of your own?!"

There was a _crunch_ – but not from Matron Evita's hands. Ernesto had swung the butt of a previously-unseen rifle into Elena's other knee, which she had moved in order to take the weight off the other leg. A horrible moan came. She fell on her hands.

Matron Evita stood and reached over to grab a clump of Elena's hair. She yanked her back and dragged her out of the room. Her ruined knees were the last thing Paz saw.

Ernesto cut the piano wire from her wrists and ankles. Before Paz could soothe them, Ernesto picked her up, bridal style, and turned left in the hallway, the opposite direction from where Matron Evita was heading. Paz didn't look at him.

"Where am I going?" Paz asked softly. "Am I going to be tortured more?"

"No," Ernesto said. "I'm taking you back to bed. You are going to go to sleep and forget what you saw. It never happened. Do you understand?"

Paz nodded with caution. His authoritarian air didn't warrant any second questions.

She was returned to her room. He placed her on the comforter. "You will receive treatment for those injuries in the morning," he said. "But if infection sets in before that, call one of the nurses and she will attend to you."

He left. Paz fumbled for her pillow. She slept on her back that night with her knife on her chest, a princess lying in state.

It would be a few days until she discovered the full extent of Elena's actions.

* * *

Notes:

\- Toledo steel is one of Spain's finest steels. It has a long history dating back to the town's first inception. It is renowned for its durability and strength.

\- Aztec knives were decorated with all sorts of precious gems and pearls. Carvings ranged from depictions of people to gods.

\- Water cure torture involves shoving a rag or a cloth down the victim's mouth. They are forced to swallow the water rapidly, and as a result, the stomach eventually bursts.

\- Officially, Cipher started in 1970 with the Patriots, but TBH I believe Zero was working his way around earlier than hence. So they're going to use the 'Cipher' name when referring to him.

Translations:

 _Pantera -_ panther

 _Mentriosas -_ liar (feminine version)

 _Rata -_ weasel (behaviour)

 _Mi hija -_ my daughter


	8. Act I - VI

**VI**

* * *

Diamondback joined her at the table during breakfast. A chocolate cosmos was in the table's centre, keeping the two girls separate as they ate their meals. Scrapes of forks on plates, eggs chewed and swallowed, glasses of juice picked up and drank were the only sounds heard in that enclosed dining room. It opened to one of the courtyards with a pool in the centre, and all of the shutters were closed. It was going to be a hot morning. They were the only two eating in that room.

Diamondback shifted the chocolate cosmos to the side, readjusting the barricade, and sat beside Paz. She watched her eat. Paz watched her back. They drank more of their juice.

Diamondback was vocal and warm while she watched films. Anything involving motion picture she loved, and one of the things she wanted to see in Mexico was the movie industry, a business that waxed and waned whatever the social mood was. She might never get to see those things, but a television would suit her fine. Ernesto had seen her enthralled with it and opted to buy it from his friend. He'd told her he'd put it in one of the living rooms for her. Diamondback fluttered with gratefulness and excitement like a free-running colt. It was a rare feat to see, and the last Paz would ever see.

The unwritten rule for the young women who worked for Cipher was this: The enemy of yesterday will be a friend of today. That meant that hostile actions committed against you in a training exercise could not be held against the aggressor, as they were only acting under orders. When the training was completed, you were to make up with the survivors and carry on as before. Grudges you held were to be suppressed until the next operation, where said grudges could be executed. The field held a no-holds-barred rule, but the house rule was 'all are equal under one roof'. But Cipher didn't predict one thing: that grudges were held differently by men and women. Young boys could exert their frustrations through athletics and war games, while girls plotted and schemed against one another. These normal rules often did not apply to Cipher agents, but biology couldn't be suppressed. The girls in the Monterrey house would scheme. It was a matter of who was going to look, and who was going to be missed.

Diamondback chewed the last of her bacon. Her eggs looked like smears of melted crayons and went uneaten.

Paz drank the last of her juice. She set her fork down. Diamondback moved her glass forward.

"Elena has been moved," she said.

"Any idea where?"

"No. But we all heard her speech. Matron Evita and Ernesto would have reported it to Cipher. We can only guess what will happen to her."

"Will they kill her? It wouldn't be beyond them."

"They might, but they may not," she said. "Elena, despite her defiance, is still a valuable student. They would not throw her away like bad meat."

Elena Zapopan was the only native Mexican among them. Hailing from Guadalajara, she was born near one of the major metropolises and her blue-blood family had enough affluence to own a fairly sized home near the cathedrals. Her parents had taken her to the Cathedral there with its twin spires every Sunday, where she dressed herself with ruby earrings and gold bracelets. This tradition had carried on to her teenage years, and whenever the group went on an expedition, the very first thing Elena wanted to see was the churches. Official histories of Cipher members were red-acted, but they were allowed to talk about minor things in their lives. Elena still had her ruby earrings that she hid from Matron Evita, wearing them whenever they were at an outing. She became known as the 'Flower Girl' for wearing wild and exotic flowers in her hair.

Paz remembered the marigold's petals as they fluttered to the ground. It painted an obscene picture. It was unlikely she would forget it. It was true it wasn't the first incident she had seen, but the sight of a bruised and crying girl on her knees, sparks of defiance and defeat dancing around her while her captors dragged her away was another wire tied around Paz's neck. Instructors said it was a valuable lesson that steeled them for the inevitable moment when it was done to them. Torture of any kind could be defeated with a strong and quick will, and if the individual didn't possess it, they were better off consumed by insects in a mass grave.

Paz's fingers curled around the table mat. The yellow fabric was stiff in her hands. "They're going to break her," Paz said quietly. "They're going to do it very hard. She'll be made of glass when they are done with her."

"She was defiant, but it hid her insecurities. She was weak-minded and willed, you know that. She could not be satisfied," Diamondback added.

Paz did not work with Elena often, but the times she did, Paz would leave Elena to fend for herself. She could not handle the Mexican's excuse for a personality. She was good on her feet – impeccably graceful – yet her mind didn't match the dance. How she survived Chihuahua could be a question of her seducing the desert or burrowing herself in the sand like a beetle, waiting for someone's shoe to crawl in.

Elena had surprised them both; she surprised everyone. Diamondback had snuck into Paz's room after the incident, and while she treated her wounds with some remedy she made up, she told her what she had learned: Elena had tried to escape.

Her plot was extensive and planned for months, maybe a year. She planned it since she was recruited into the program and snuck things of value into her room whenever she got the chance: pieces of metal to make switchblades, broken forks for lock picks, a sewing kit, extra cloth, gauze, pill bottles, and a Beretta that she had stolen from Ernesto's room. As it turned out, it was this missing weapon that had spurred Ernesto to rout her out. The twist was that Ernesto knew for a while what Elena was planning to do, and waited for the opportune moment to gather evidence and the culprit. He rummaged through cabinets, loose floorboards and hollowed out shutters, finding a multitude of items, including the Ford's car keys. Her plan was to wait until people had eaten a dinner she had cooked that was laced with tranquilizers, and when the party fell asleep, she'd take the car and leave to a place of her choosing. To add another twist, Elena was not the only member involved: three other girls wanted to go with her, and had smuggled supplies to her. They, too, would be summarily dealt with.

It was a terrifying situation. Would the rest of them be viewed with suspicion, now? It'd be foolish not to. Griselda was stubborn and known for smuggling food, but that was all she did. Diamondback would watch movies she bartered from people on the street, offering them jewellery and pins she made, but she knew the risks. Paz was considered the 'favourite', or at least the shining star and Matron Evita would make doubly sure she wouldn't dream of picking a flower outside the grounds without her permission. This minefield-like atmosphere wouldn't dissipate until the threat was quelled.

Paz was both stunned and awed by Elena's audacious move. She didn't think Elena was capable of it, as she was all dance and no thought. Her foiled escape proved that she could hold a double personality in that body of hers; doing things no one would suspect her of doing. It was brilliant. Maybe Cipher thought of it that way, too.

If Cipher didn't decide to kill her, that was.

Nothing more was said between them. Plates were cleared and put away. Paz was moving to the courtyard when Diamondback called out to her.

"I found these hidden in a flower pot. I thought you might want them." Diamondback and Paz met in the middle of the room. Diamondback's hands clasped over hers. Paz felt something drop in her palm. She kept her hand closed.

"Matron Evita took her gold and jewels away," Diamondback said. "This is the last of it."

Paz uncurled her hand. Elena's cardinal-red ruby earrings glittered in the light. They never left the spot under her pillow.

* * *

In the _'Madeline'_ story, Miss Clavel woke from her sleep, turned on the light, and said, 'something is not right.' That was a line that described sudden alertness perfectly. Moving like an automaton, she wove her way through the mansion, following an invisible trail of wails that sounded like whistles from a ghost. She moved up a set of stairs – the sound weakened. She moved down another set – it grew louder. She moved through this labyrinth of pots, doors, and open courtyards, keeping her ears open for the source of those wails that sang on the night winds. Given the current situation, she'd find herself in another jail, with another jailer, in another room, if she was caught. Curfew was implemented after Elena's stunt, and the freedoms enjoyed weeks before were clamped down.

But it didn't stop Paz. Paz was a curious creature, insatiable until the curious object was discovered. She was Miss Clavel, and she was going to find what wasn't right.

Paz was barefoot, but she moved as silent as a mink. She avoided places she knew were inhabited, and she shimmied up walls to darker terraces when there were lights below. She kept up this routine until the wails that aroused her from sleep rose to a crescendo, a distressing cry that slithered under a crack in a window. Paz adjusted herself, swinging her legs over the railing, and crept up to it. She peered inside.

It took some time for her eyes to adjust. But she recognized the writhing form on the bed. The marigold, visible in the feeble light, had crumbled to a brown pile on the pillow. The shadow did not move to brush it away.

Elena's weeping form revealed much, even if Paz couldn't see the detailed extent of what had happened to her. She could see wet spots on her arms and legs, stains on her sheets that bled into the bed skirt, and limbs that appeared uneven and warped. Paz was glad of the darkness. The sight of the bruises – awful as they must be – would have made her sick. Both her knees were bent at odd angles, and Elena's hair looked like it had been sheared. Only a few long locks remained, and those stayed to cover her face. But those sights were not the ones that sent a feeling of pure terror into her stomach.

Between Elena's dusky legs was a thick trail of blood. She could see the ribbon that spilled over her legs and onto the sheets, and when Elena pulled her legs up so she could lie in the fetal position, Paz caught a hint of the damage that had been done.

Paz didn't want to see anymore. She fled.

The girl who wore gold bracelets and ruby earrings with marigolds in her hair was gone; the pods of her beauty and youth dug up and crushed in another man's hand. All that was left was the pair of earrings in Paz's possession. Later on, when Paz was an independent agent, she would throw the earrings into the San Juan River. She couldn't handle the girl's tortured spirit anymore.

* * *

Notes:

\- I know this is slow, but I at least want to develop these OCs before I get rid of them. The pacing will pick up eventually.

\- The earrings will return later, and with their own consequences.


End file.
